#essosi politics

[kaerinio]

daenerys' first language is high valyrian. when she was a baby, viserys would coo at her exclusively in valyrian, and ser willem darry ensured that her nurses and early tutors also interacted with her in both valyrian and the common tongue. her first words were valyrian, and as a girl, she would often converse with the servants at darry's estate and viserys in valyrian, including the various dialects of the free cities! typically, the only common tongue she would really use was with ser darry. and, following his death, valyrian remained her main form of communication; however, this changes, when viserys transforms into the beggar king. shortly after selling rhaella's crown, the final physical attachment to their targaryen identity, he begins to speak to dany only in the common tongue. you see, to him, he is a westerosi king, and in order to be westerosi, he decides that he (and dany) must speak the language of westeros: the common tongue, which is, as he would claim, "the language of civilized man." when dany attempts to speak valyrian with him in those initial days, she is met with hostility and harm, including viserys admonishing her valyrian, claiming that it is diminished, berating her accent, and telling her to speak in a way befitting of a targaryen princess (interesting). so, dany stops speaking valyrian with viserys altogether, and instead, she whispers this language, tasting of the house with the red door and what feels like home to her, with other children in bazaars and vendors and servants in the homes of could-be allies.

i should write a separate thing for this because i am incredibly fascinated by language and connection, and dany is certainly very attune with language, connection, and intimacy through communication !!! and i will but! as queen of meereen, dany speaks high valyrian, particularly a ghiscari dialect constructed of old ghiscari and valyrian, while conducting court and communicating with her subjects. during council meetings, she primarily communicates in high valyrian, as it is spoken and understood by all her councillors. with barristan, belwas, her bloodriders, and handmaids, she typically speaks the common tongue. among the dothraki (and when it is just her, her bloodriders, and handmaids), she speaks dothraki. when it comes to her dragons, she croons at them in high valyrian.

[horizon-verizon]

Yes, of course, because we all know Moorish Spain is actually a climate. Stop being so racist, and admit that the Martells are brown people.

*EDITED POST* (9/6/24)

Also, refer to this post from now on.

I never said Spain was a climate, though? I said that it has the climate of an arid region and yes climate does affect culture (food, dress, etc.) which in turn inevitably will shape the ethnicity's distinguishment from others.

Yes and no: yes, because they were obviously darker and had more Rhoynish roots than say the Dornish Fowlers and Daeron I thrust the exonym of "salty" on them; but no, bc almost all Dornish, including the Martells, practice the Faith and spoke the Common Tongue and Dorne is mean to be a Spain analog, not a PoC country/people.

If being a league of your own makes you "brown" or "PoC", sure. But in-story AND real modern =/= medieval race. Westerosi racial definitions =/= real, modern racial definitions. And the circumstances under which we'd recognize racial oppression simply don't exist in Dornish-nonDornish interactions and history.

The entity that is "Dorne" mimics/an analog of not a PoC nation or people but a white European one: Spain. Brown people are not European--by phenological skin color, sure sometimes, like Greek and Spanish and other Med peoples, sure...racially, no.

A) what GRRM has said:

B)

Definitions of racism:

(Google) - prejudice, discrimination, or antagonism by an individual, community, or institution against a person or people on the basis of their membership in a particular racial or ethnic group, typically one that is a minority or marginalized - the belief that different races possess distinct characteristics, abilities, or qualities, especially so as to distinguish them as inferior or superior to one another (Merriam-Webster) - a belief that race is a fundamental determinant of human traits and capacities and that racial differences produce an inherent superiority of a particular race

VS

Definition of xenophobia (Merriam-Webster):

fear and hatred of strangers or foreigners or of anything that is strange or foreign

Xenophobia specifically refers to a person or group having an “outsider” status within a society.

Racism relates explicitly to race or ethnicity, whether the person or group has “outsider” status or not.

We have and can use them interchangeably, but it's still important to remember that the difference in the Westerosi context is that xenophobia does not come from a context of systematic oppression.

Notes:

I am arguing all of this in mind of the argument people make that Rhaegar abandoned Elia because he thought her his racial inferior and Lyanna her racial superior, which is false bc such notions are not present or supplied by a ra cially oppressive state.

"race" and ethnicity are already strange in the ASoIaF world, anon. "Stranger" even than real events where different people with different religions define themselves what their ethnicity is, and what makes them a separate people during times of constant intermarriages and cultural influencing (Anglo-Normans and Spain).

Race is not ethnicity.

Climate absolutely affects how an ethnic group creates its tools, clothing, food, accessories, medicine, religious beliefs (animism), language, and literature or oral storytelling (what does "heat" vs "cold" usually signify and mean to that society, winds, etc? esp in connection to their religious beliefs) -> ex. the ironborn (who are not Andal by ethnicity nor First Men) a sea versus storm god and associating storms and winds as "evil" due to the dangers of storms to fishermen, sailors, and their reavers; Culture absolutely gets its legs and structure from the people's physical needs and surroundings. The region can indicate climate and climate gives us a clue into what region(s) we are talking about.

While climate doesn't equal ethnicity, it has a heavy influence on many physical and cultural features that hegemonic forces use to create their racial categories according to what legal and social hierarchies they want.

For the Martells and Dornishpeople to be PoCs exactly like the PoCs today in real life, there kinda has to be a history of a) the Dornish having been assimilated into Westerosi society/infrastructures and made subordinate to the "white" Westerosi b) actual systematic oppression against the Dornish from the nonDornish, and Dorne has been able to maintain its independence from Westeros pretty much since Westeros' inception. Even after Daeron II married Myriah Martell, the Martells and the Dornish still worked as their own principality rather than a region totally under the control of the Westerosi monarchy. There was no colonization or successful imperialist campaigns on Dorne. Like the Targs, Dorne is "queer" not more for skin color nor religion so much as the Rhoynish traditions towards gender equity--at least regarding succession and leadership--and sexuality.

C)

First, neither I nor ozymalek claimed that climate alone equaled ethnicity nor race.

This is what was said:

wales (historical influence more than cultural or ethnic)

spain and palestine (in terms of climate) [me: really, "region" and how climate will affect food, clothing, etc]

moor-influenced spain (ethnicity; rhoynar influence on the region paralleling that of moors)

1.

ozymalek seems to say that GRRM wants us to think the Andal-Dorne and Rhoynish melding is inspired by a "Caucasian" European country with a history of interacting and sometimes intermarrying melding into/from communities of African Muslims and Sephardic Jews, but this time a lot more successful and actually ending with a whole new state called "Dorne", as GRRM has not written of any racial strife in Dorn itself. 

The Welsh, Scottish, and Irish fought and resisted the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms--that would become the kingdom of England sometime in the 900s--when the Western Saxon kings conquered and took control over the others for a long time, and they were ethnically different from these people, with their own customs, language, etc., with even their own language. Even today. They are all also racially considered "white" globally, while in their own local English vs Irish (for example) were racially categorized as inherently different from Anglo-Saxon-Norman descent peoples and racially categorized and conceived of as inherently different from Protestants in the U.S. upon their immigration until they themselves adopted whiteness-defined. In those Cetlic groups that make up most Irish clans of "yore", you find suggestions of women having a lot more political influence and activity than their ancient Roman and later Saxon 900 A.D. counterparts. Similar to how the Dornishmen have very different customs regarding sexuality and women from other Westerosi, but not exactly the same. So while the Wales inspiration is there, so is the Spanish history of cultural influences from Moorish and Jewish people.

And even though Spain has its Muslim African influences historically, we still think of Spain as a white, European country--if we want to go with race instead of ethnicity.

Spain and Wales both are European, they have separate ethnicities, but the people are considered racially white by some people's definition of "whiteness": be descended of/be raised as Europeans or just Northern Europeans (the "English" islands, France, all Nordic regions, Germany); not be Jewish/have any other religion other than Christianity (Dorne is of the Faith); and look pale enough to be taken as if you were just descended from N.Europeans. Race is weird and a false thing we nevertheless live by.

Yes, the lords of Westeros at Daeron II's court, especially the Stormlanders, looked askance at the Dornishmen peoples filling up the court and several favored positions both because they felt they hadn't dominated the Dornishmen quite yet, the Dornish did not practice the misogyny that they had encoded in their customs, AND they wanted those positions themselves, using the warring to argue that the Dornishmen didn't deserve those positions. Yes, it is similar to how white Americans call against Mexicans, Caribbean, and South Americans "taking all our jobs" or "intruding" previously Stormland/Reachmen spaces/having what they thought of as their privileges. Such things also happened between Normans and Anglo-Saxon barons before and after the Norman Conquest, and both these groups were European/racially white, as well, and are obviously coming from xenophobia. The Dornish are not a systematically marginalized racial group in Westeros.

Before it's brought up, "Southron" Andal-descent lords don't totally play well with Northern old god worshippers and consider themselves very different culturally, yet they have also intermarried for centuries with Andal peoples before the Targs--they are supposed to be analogs of pre-Irish migration (19th century) Northern England, which had strong linguistically Old Norse influence from Viking contact in the 9th and 10th centuries. Most of northern and eastern England was part of either the Danelaw or the Danish-controlled Kingdom of Northumbria. It doesn't really make them any less "white" nor less intended as such and it's clear that Northerners are more considered "Westerosi" or can be closer to the "whiteness" because they are not too different in the cases of sexuality and primogeniture.

2.

ozymalek also seems to say that the Rhoynish were only like the Moors in that their arrival and joining with the Martells resulted in the previously only-Andal Martells' culture and political structure changed and was redefined without erasing it altogether:

metal-working with iron which was better than the "steel" Andals/pre-Nymeria Martells/pre-Rhoynish Dornish had

equal primogeniture and gender rule in the Martell succession

paramours' higher regard

the toleration of homosexuality

Rhoynish language shaping esp Martell and other Dornish's pronunciation of the Common Tongue differently (they still actually just speak the Common tongue and use it as an official language like the nonDornish lords)

Arrival and practices. (Arrival of Moors - the arrival of the Rhoynar).

I don't agree that the Rhoynar are not PoC, but yet again, we moderns consider Spain and its kingdoms racially white and European by region and appearance.

3a.

The Dornish (mostly those who live near or in the Red Mountains, whom Daeron I called the "Stony" Dornishmen like the Wyls and the Vulture King) are also like the Welsh vs English/Anglo-Saxons in that like the Welsh, they warred and get/got into skirmishes with the other Westerosi kingdoms (Westeros is analogous to "England") and lords often. Not even culturally, just those warring behaviors tied to resistance against occupation and political hegemony into cultural subsumption and the usual fighting over resources/space/territory. From both perspectives the resisiting and makes up a lot of what culturally defines Dornishmen.

First Meria Martell resisted the first 3 Targ conquerors, insisting on their Dornishmen independence and determination to remain so.

Then to Dornishmen and Dornish marchers consistently warring with Stormlanders, Reachmen, reach marchers, and Stomlander marchers for resources, revenge, and "glory".

And then the smallfolk resisted Daeron I after most of the nobles were subdued, leading to the final ambush that killed Daeron I.

Aegon IV's complete failure to even enter Dorne with his mechanical wildfire-throwing structures collapsed on themselves in the Kingswood.

They never, not once, considered themselves part of the later "Westerosi" realm, that territory ruled by a unifier monarch. Yet they practice the same religion and think of themselves as more Andal as well (I believe since there's no indication of them rejecting an Andal identity), without thinking of themselves as true subjects of the Westerosi crown. Way before the Targs reached Westeros. At the same time, the Andals (Catholic and white, "N.EU" analogs) and the First Men themselves came from Essos, the "orient" of the ASoIaF world .... and their political structure is still favorable towards men holding power. But the Andals came from the northwestern part of Essos with their sigils, Faith religion, the importance placed on swords indicating male strength, and female subservience to that. How do we define all those FM and Andal lords who are not Dornishmen, anon? (We'll have to ask GRRM what is up here. And, you know, open a history book.)

Daeron I was the one to create "stony" vs "sandy" vs "salty" racial categories for Dornishmen, exonyms for the sake of nonDornish people to categorize Dornishmen. For now, it would seem that there is no true giving away of privileges to stony versus subjugations against sandy or salty Dornishmen. Because, once more, there is no systematic marginalization of the Dornish people who don't even think of themselves as "salty", etc.

3b.

What made people ethnically "different" in most medieval mindsets had more to do with religion or being a noble versus a nonnoble than skin color. Until maybe the later 1490s and beyond (when EU was really beginning its colonizing legs and coming across non-Christian groups far from EU), skin color was more a sub-element than the prime one that defined what made people different for a long while until people actively began using skin color alone to connote spiritual purity and assigned a moral being to skin color....which is the origins of racial concepts we understand today, the modern conceptions of race. And most Dornishmen just so happen to be Andal Faith worshippers.

The Martells are not totally like the Wyls, Daynes, Fowlers, Yronwoods in some cultural practices (because the Rhoynish influence is less the more north you go in Dorne, and some northern Dornish or Dornish marcher can go by Andal male primogeniture) but even that is vaguely told and we don't know what "influence" shaped what stony practices and how.

We get a look into how they do not look the same across different regions from a non-Dornish, Targaryen perspective:

The trouble in ASoIaF is that because the Andals were supposedly white Catholic analogs who still originated from an Asian/Mediterranean-analogue continent...how are we supposed to view the other Essoi peoples? The Valyrians were pale and had pale hair with violet eyes yet they lived on a peninsula surrounded by waters as if they were ancient Mediterranean-inspired. (Greek-ish city-state controlling the lands around them, like Athens or--more likely--the city of Rome is what we may think Valyria is like, except times 100 because they had dragons and were one "city".)

Here is a QUOTE describing the Rhoynar before the Valyrians attacked them. Are they Mediterranean, or Indus River Valley-inspired? If Med, they are white. If Indus River, they are not. If both, what then? (I think they are PoC, the Rhoynar, by modern definition of race [not ethnicity, it's obvious they have completely different ethnicities]).

Because again, ethnicity, then race, doesn’t really work the same when it comes to non-Summer Islanders-Westerosi peoples--Summer Islanders and Westerosi. Summer Islanders are definitely Black-Pacific Islander analogs and we actually see how the Westerosi treat them and refer to them like how Europeans referred to and treated nonChristians black people. "Black Pearl" Bellegere Otherys, also known as the Black Pearl of Braavos and that Summer Islander man who visited King's Landing's court to get political support for his own interests, how Cersei, an Andal nonDornishman Westerosi and a westerlander, thinks of him. There is no real racial category for the summer Islanders in ASoIaF, they are just called Summer Islanders, and "Black" refers to their darkness of skin color alone, not a racial category.

But because the Rhoynish-Andal Martells, Fowlers, Daynes, Wyls, etc. still have the Seven (Catholicism) as their faith and cultural categorization was more about religion than skin color in real-world medieval Europe...well it seems that the Westerosi nobles would have considered the Martells Westerosi "enough" by-class-religion-and-proximity, especially after Daeron II got the Dornishmen to be more integrated into the Westerosi kingdom. (Despite, again, their Rhoynish-custom-influence and not wanting to be a part of the Westerosi political state/territory to be ruled by a king as if they weren't their own autonomous realm that the Martells rule as autonomous rulers, as some people argued for the black Velayrons of HotD).

D)

Mediterranean/South European white people like Greeks, Italians, and Spaniards have and are imagined to have “olive” skin. Just because they are darker than the image of a Northern European, doesn’t mean that they aren’t white..because they are still European and do not come from colonized non-EU regions.

They are, yes, racially categorized differently at different times of world history, but it really took ground in legal organization and close-quarter social interactions AFTER THE 18th century! Eugenists and American nativists (and people today) categorized them and Greek people as the "black" Europeans and Jewish people as "not white".

[eggtargaryenii]

EAST OF THE SUN | PART I

You were a disgrace to House Targaryen, the product of an impulsive wedding between a lost prince and some Essosi whore. You had little social capital within the Red Keep and few prospects for marriage, but that was alright. You were perfectly happy to stay out of the game of thrones, wed some politically relevant lord of Alicent Hightower’s choosing, and die in peaceful obscurity. Unfortunately for you, Prince Aemond had other designs for your future.

5.8k words, aemond x fem!reader x jacaerys (though sadly, jace is not in this chapter). romance, childhood friends to lovers (except it's cousins), political drama. warnings for targaryen incest (between cousins), xenophobia/racism (depending on how you interpret the reader's racial coding), teenagers discussing sex, and a reference to underage sex in canon. the reader is half-valyrian and half-essosi, ethnically undefined. features are not described but she is considered conventionally attractive. dividers from @/cafekitsune.

I. THE HERMIT, REVERSED

You were a child when you learned that your mother was a whore.

Your father—a cousin to King Viserys—found your mother in one of the famed pillowhouses of Lys and brought her home as a souvenir. She was already heavy with you when they landed in Blackwater Bay, singing to you as your father cradled her belly every night. Though they had already been wedded in the Red Temple of Volantis, their union blessed by the light of R’hllor, it was your father’s wish that their love was also witnessed by the gods of Westeros. They were wedded once more in the Great Sept of Baelor, in a ceremony that was an affront to your grandsire, Prince Velarion. So wroth was he that everyone anticipated a terrible fate for your little family: the marriage annulled, your father forced into penance, and your mother killed.

But to the displeasure of Prince Velarion, one of the dragons chose you for a bond. (You were still in the womb when Wildfyre started clicking and squawking at you, and snarling at any man who came near your mother; he did not stop until you claimed him at ten-and-two, soaring upon his back through the skies of Myr.) The dragon keepers insisted that this was a sign that you were chosen by the gods of Old Valyria, so the lives of you and your mother were spared.

Still—your mother was eventually exiled, and your lord father wished to see her back to Lys. You had cried bitterly and begged to go with them, but your father said that the journey through the Stepstones would be too dangerous. He entrusted you to Viserys until his return, and then embarked on a journey that should not have taken more than one hundred days.

Ten years later, you still waited for him.

It was hard to recall when it was concluded that your father was unlikely to return; you only remembered that you did not accept it. The mornings and evenings of your early childhood were spent watching all the ships that passed through Blackwater Bay, waiting for red-and-black sails and a man you could now hardly remember. You only stopped once you flew through the skies of the Free Cities on dragonback, and not a single lost prince waved to you from among the crowds.

Your father’s disappearance left your position in jeopardy. The King could have easily taken control of his wealth and disinherited you if he so wished—as your grandsire was inclined—but His Grace instead decided that you should stay in the Red Keep and be treated like any other trueborn Targaryen. You were told as a child that this was an act of magnanimity, a gesture born out of love for his lost cousin, but you later came to realise that it was likely a self-serving move conjured up by Otto Hightower. Marriages were the easiest way to form political alliances; having an extra Targaryen lady to marry off was good leverage.

But despite your utility, you were still a stain within the Red Keep—a disgrace for the histories of the Targaryen dynasty. Nearly as great of one as Princess Saera herself, though perhaps still not quite as embarrassing as the three bastards sired by Lord Strong unto Princess Rhaenyra. Nevertheless, you were still a pariah. After all, children inherit the sins of their parents in the eyes of the Seven, meaning that your mother’s sin was also yours.

And so—when you were a child, you learned that if your mother was a foreign whore, then so too were you.

II. JUSTICE, REVERSED

Aemond was a child when he learned that people mistook you for a whore.

He learned this by listening to his queen mother, eavesdropping on a hushed conversation between her and his father. They were at a tourney, the crowd abuzz with chatter, which was perhaps why they were speaking so openly. The Queen stared at you as you sat next to Helaena, frowning at the closeness between the two of you. Being close in age, it was natural that the two of you spoke to each other frequently. You were a little older than all three of Alicent’s children and, as was common of a girl your age, you had prepared a favour: a ring of forget-me-nots interwoven with a ribbon you often wore. It was simple, but pretty, and it gave Aemond a feeling of deep distaste for some reason he couldn't identify.

His mother seemed to find it distasteful too. “Hard to believe she prepared a favour,” she said. She used the tone with which she often spoke of Princess Rhaenyra, the one that suggested derision. Aemond listened carefully, as he tended to whenever you came up in the conversation.

“And why would that be?” his lord father asked. He sounded defensive, also similar to the way he always did when his firstborn daughter came up. And as with Rhaenyra, Alicent seemed not to care for his sentimentality toward you.

“Well, what man would think to ask for it,” she asked, not delicately, “given her parentage?”

“Whatever you may think of her mother,” the King replied, “the girl is still a trueborn Targaryen. It is natural that she may catch the attention of some lordling or knight.”

“Surely not one with any faith, nor any serious ambitions in the court,” Alicent remarked. “Because she is—”

She paused then, hesitating. When Aemond snuck a glance at his father, he saw a stiff smile on his face.

“She is?” he questioned.

“...she resembles her mother more and more with each passing day,” Alicent remarked. “And one would think that she is similar. Foreign and improper in nature. A daughter of sin.”

Aemond’s brow furrowed. His mother spoke often of sin, of those who should beg for the grace of the Seven lest they be condemned to hell. She often reminded Aegon not to commit any such transgressions lest he disgrace the family, which he seemed to often do anyway. Aemond did not think you were particularly like his older brother, who stank constantly of wine and snuck off to Flea Bottom on every possible occasion. On the contrary, you were mostly well-behaved—except when you were quarrelling with Aegon—hardly ever indulged in any vices, and you only ever snuck out of your room to make miserable, wistful faces at the waters of Blackwater Bay.

And unlike Aegon, you were also kind.

Aemond did not know why exactly you had always been so nice to him; he just knew that you were unwaveringly so. Perhaps you felt a kind of kinship with him because he was frequently as miserable as you. For as long as the two of you had known each other, you had never once teased Aemond, and you in fact defended him. Just a few moons ago, you’d shouted at Aegon after the incident with the pig in the dragonpit, comforted Aemond after the fact, and encouraged him to claim Vhagar thereafter. To show up your ass of a brother, you’d suggested. And when Lucerys slashed his face open in the aftermath, you kept Aemond company for the entire duration of the recovery—watching them remove his ruined eye despite your disgust, keeping him company at his bedside when a fever took him, glowering at the Strong bastards whenever they came near him. Only his mother cared for him more deeply.

Aemond did not know what kind of sin such a kind person could have committed—what his queen mother should be referring to. So he turned to his brother and asked, “What does Mother mean by that?”

“Mean by what?” Aegon asked, eyes on the knights before the crowd. Clearly distracted.

“She called our cousin a daughter of sin. What does she mean?”

“Oh.” His brother glanced briefly at you, eyes considering. They travelled down your silhouette in a way that Aemond misliked for some reason he couldn't identify. “She means our cousin is a whore.”

“A whore?” Aemond asked, questioning. He’d heard the word many times, of course—sometimes uttered by his brother, and once lobbed at Princess Rhaenyra—and understood it as an insult. But no one had ever explained its specific meaning to him.

Aegon gave him an incredulous look. “You don't know what a whore is?” At Aemond's blank expression, Aegon explained, “It means she spreads her legs for money and is destined to go to hell. You know, like the women on the Street of Silk.” He paused, sizing up Aemond. “I should take you there someday, give you a proper education—then you’ll know exactly what mother means when she says ‘daughter of sin’.”

“I know what sex is,” Aemond replied defensively, though he didn't entirely know the details. “I'm not stupid.” He frowned then. “She doesn't work on the Street of Silk, though.”

“No, but her mother worked in a Lysene pillow house—much the same as the Street of Silk, though I hear the establishments of Lys are nicer, and filled with the most beautiful slaves from all over Essos.” Aegon looked at you again in a way that Aemond did not like. “I wonder if she inherited any of her mother’s talents. Maybe she’ll let me fuck her someday and I'll find out.”

Aemond felt a sense of disgust at the thought, even without fully knowing what his brother was imagining. All he knew was that he hated the thought of his brother putting his hands on you. “She wouldn't.”

“She would.”

“Would not.”

“Would too.”

“Would not! Who’d want to lay with you?”

Aegon scoffed. “Every woman from the Wall to Yi Ti, of course. Who wouldn't want to fuck a Targaryen prince?” He elbowed Aemond. “That includes you too, you know. Maybe if you pay her, she’ll let you have a turn as well. Then I wouldn't even need to take you to the Street of Silk to become a man.”

The feeling of disgust intensified. Not knowing what to do with it, Aemond kicked Aegon in the shin, making the young man yelp.

“Ow! What was that for?”

“For being an ass.”

“An ass? I'm giving you advice, man to man! Guiding you toward adulthood and a glorious night with our Lysene beauty of a cousin!”

“I don't want a glorious night with her.”

“Fine, then—I alone will enjoy her.”

Aemond kicked him again, and Aegon cursed. “Little shit!” he hissed, which—as Aemond had planned—earned him a violent shush and a glare from their mother. His brother gave him a dirty look for the manipulation.

“I don't know why you're getting all sensitive about this,” Aegon said. He squinted at Aemond then, discerning. “Say—is this jealousy? Insecurity? Are you worried that you aren’t man enough to bed her?”

Aemond glowered at him, which made Aegon laugh and clap his back.

“No need to worry if she rejects you, little brother. I know a number of skilled women on the Street of Silk, any one of them as good in bed as our cousin should be. After all, one whore’s as good as another.”

Aegon scowled. “Stop calling her that. She’s a lady of House Targaryen, not a whore.”

“Who says a lady can't be a whore? Just think of our Great-aunt Saera! I guess you wouldn’t know, but she ended up in a pleasure house, first in Flea Bottom, and now somewhere in Lys. And look at our half-sister—mother to three bastards. I'm sure our dear cousin will follow in their footsteps. It's in her blood.”

“She wouldn't do that,” Aemond replied sharply. “She's nothing like those two.”

How could you be? Princess Saera had been a vile person and Rhaenyra was a self-serving liar. Both Aegon and his mother had to be wrong about you—Aemond was sure of it. His mother treated you with such judgement, but he was certain you were undeserving of it.

He was sure of it too when his brother finally took him to the Street of Silk years later, and he bedded a woman for the first time. Sylvi was her name. She was indeed very skilled, and she was kind as well—stroking his hair afterwards and praising him for doing such a good job. It reminded him somewhat of his mother’s touch upon his head after Lucerys took out his eye, and the way you held his hand as his fever set in. But that was the end of any similarity between you and Sylvi; and in that respect, you were much more like his mother than this strange woman anyway. Aemond knew then that you were neither a whore nor a sinner. He couldn’t imagine you disgracing yourself like the girls who sold themselves at the brothel, let alone selling yourself to someone like his brother.

But his mother had been right about one thing: no one asked for your favour that day during the tourney. You’d sighed at the ring of flowers, looking a little forlorn, and tossed it later onto the floor of the godswood—an offering for the old gods, you'd said to the weirwood, because the new ones were shit. Aemond watched you from behind an ancient oak, waiting for you to leave. Once he was certain you were gone, he snatched your favour from the ground. He studied it carefully, eyes tracing the ribbon woven deftly between the flowers. He remembered that you wore it when you stayed by his bedside.

He untangled it from the ring of forget-me-nots, and he decided to take it back to his room.

III. THE MAGICIAN

Alicent Hightower was eager to marry you off.

The Small Council had spent the past several weeks discussing the prospects of your marriage. Without any parents to oversee your betrothal, the decision of your match laid entirely in the hands of King Viserys—which was to say, in the hands of Otto Hightower and his daughter. Alicent had very little love for you—no pious woman in her right mind would love a daughter of sin—but you were glad for her influence in some ways. Rhaenyra, before she left King’s Landing, relayed to you that Otto had brought up your future betrothal when you were as young as ten, but Alicent cautioned him against premature decisions. Let us not waste the opportunity given to us by her marriage, she always chided, but Rhaenyra had the sense that it had less to do with politics and more to do with wanting to spare you from the fate of a child bride.

But now you were a woman grown, and you were quickly becoming a nuisance for the Queen. She had been willing to tolerate your presence near her children when you were all young and she was charged with raising you, but she had recently begun imagining that you had corruptive influence over her sons. Aegon regularly talked of how much he'd love to bed you, which made her furious with him; and Aemond always insisted on having your company, which made her furious with you. Ever since your first blood, the Red Keep had regularly been plagued by rumours of your indiscretions with whichever knight or lord with whom you were most seen. Most recently, the most popular whisper was that Prince Aemond was your lover and you were secretly carrying his child. Why else would such an adroit and honourable young man regularly associate with the daughter of a whore?

Alicent had been apoplectic when she heard the rumours. They were, you supposed, believable. Her second son had always been strangely attached to you, nearly to the exclusion of all others. He didn't even treat his own sister with such affection—and he certainly held no such love for his brother—so a carnal relationship was a somewhat natural conclusion for an outsider. You, however, withered at the thought. Aemond may now be as comely as the Maiden herself, but you still saw him as the awkward little boy whom you grew up alongside and whom you constantly defended from his bullies.

Of course, his mother had no way of knowing any of this; she could only see the signs of a sordid affair between the two of you. That Alicent Hightower had raised you out of the goodness of her heart and you chose to return this favour by corrupting her son and engaging in the great sin of fornication was a huge upset. Not only did she chew you out in the throne room in front of King Viserys, utterly humiliating you—she also designed to send you to the Silent Sisters.

You could have easily ingratiated yourself to her with the correct penance. You could have distanced yourself from Aemond, as well as every other man in the Red Keep. You could have dedicated yourself to studying the Seven, immersing yourself in their grace. And most of all, you could have fervently denounced your mother and fervently renounced all sin. You could have made it clear that you were not a sinner, and especially not a harlot.

But you would lose respect for yourself if you did any of those things. You loved your mother too much to disavow her; you refused to practise a faith that would condemn her to hell simply for her profession; and most importantly, you did not want to distance yourself from Aemond. You had only three friends in this world, and that was only if you were allowed to include your dragon in the count. Your cousin Jacaerys got along well with you, but he'd long since left the capital, making Aemond your only companion in King’s Landing who was capable of human speech. (Wildfyre, though loyal, was not exactly a good conversationalist.)

All this to say, you simply did not want to let Aemond go.

In the end, you placated Alicent by making the somewhat extreme decision to invite her most trusted septa to inspect your maidenhead. When it was revealed that you were not, in fact, fucking Aemond, Alicent had no choice but to recant her allegations. Mollified, the Queen afterward extended an olive branch by meeting with you at least once a week. Repairing our relationship, she called it. By this she meant that she would spend an hour proselytising to you in an attempt to save your heathen Lysene soul, and then another hour discussing your marriage prospects. Better to be rid of you before her second son could actually be seduced by your sinful nature.

Right now you were both sitting in the garden, enjoying a pot of chrysanthemum tea in the sun. Alicent had just wrapped up an impromptu sermon about the Seven; now she was speaking to you about marriage. She kept talking about a Lord Stokeworth and a Lordling from House Tully. The former was nearly thirty years your senior and the younger was almost ten years your junior, but they were both willing to overlook the fact that people knew you as the daughter of a Lysene whore. It was more important to them that you were the blood of the dragon.

“Rivermen are especially difficult to make alliances with,” Alicent told you, “but they are bound by oaths and loyal to their kin. And I'm sure the lordling would treat you well. A marriage with a Tully would do well for all of us.”

“Rivermen are bound by oaths,” you said, “but they have already sworn loyalty toward us. They have never once expressed unrest during King Viserys’ reign, have they?”

Alicent stopped. She regarded you carefully, her fingers twitching—nails scraping against one another. She clearly wanted to use you to assure the loyalty of the Riverlands to the Hightowers, but you were unwilling to openly commit yourself to her cause. For the past several years, you'd been careful to wear neither black nor green, and this was perhaps both her greatest reason for not loving you and for not banishing you.

“That is true,” she said, “but Lord Tully has been sick a long while now, and his hold on his bannermen has loosened. Their allegiances are unclear. It would do well for the Crown to have more influence in the Riverlands, in case of any trouble during our succession.”

“I am still confused, my Queen. I do not think the Riverlands have ever been inclined to defy either their liege or the Iron Throne. They have all bent the knee to Princess Rhaenyra.” With this, you paralyzed the Queen: the only reason they would have to protest the Iron Throne was if it were ever usurped. She had just implied treason, and you would not let it go unnoticed.

You supposed it was a bold thing to point this out, but you really did not want to marry a ten year old. Ideally you'd wed a handsome lord with reasonable political standing, as far away from the Red Keep and the new gods as possible. The Riverlands were too close, and the Faith of the Seven was too strong there. On the other hand, Dorne, Winterfell, and the Iron Islands were incredibly far, and the peoples of the latter two followed entirely different faiths. Most importantly, the men of their respective noble families were quite handsome. You would happily live up to your reputation and debase yourself for Cregan Stark if the opportunity ever arose.

“If oaths were the problem,” you said delicately. “I'm sure the North could use attention. The Ironborn have always wanted for independence, and we have relied greatly on the Starks to suppress them. Or perhaps we could consider the problem of Dorne.”

“Dorne,” she repeated, her stare hard.

“King Viserys has always wanted to bring them into the kingdom, has he not?” She breathed deeply, and you added, “These are not suggestions, of course. Merely questions. I am eager to learn the wisdom of the only woman to sit on the Small Council.”

Let it not be said that you did not know how to play to people’s emotions. Alicent’s shoulders relaxed, and she took a sip of her tea. “These are good questions,” she admitted. “The problem of Dorne is too complex to manage with a simple marriage to House Targaryen, but the Greyjoy suggestion is intriguing. I might be inclined to caution the King against it, if he were to propose it. The Ironborn are a proud people. I do not think a marriage to a Targaryen lady would be enough to placate them, and a marriage to you specifically may present… a danger to the North.”

“You would worry about giving them a dragon.”

“Yes. But Winterfell…”

The Queen paused. You tried not to smile.

“Winterfell always honours their oaths,” you said, “but given what the realm asks of them, it never hurts to reward them for their loyalty. Who knows what may happen in the future?” Who knows what may happen if Prince Aegon were to ascend the Throne? “If a struggle were ever to happen at the Wall, I am sure Lord Stark and his bannermen would remember which queen sent him a Targaryen wife and a dragon in support of their struggle.”

Alicent nodded. She looked at you as if seeing you in a new light—a better one.

“I will speak to the Hand about this matter,” she determined. “I shall get his thoughts before the tourney in a fortnight, and see which families we should introduce you to then.”

“I shall prepare myself for it.”

“Good.” She smiled at you. “See to it that you are dressed well for the occasion. I feel that green would be a lovely colour on you—don’t you?”

IV. DEATH, REVERSED

“Hello, father of my bastard child!”

Your voice rang through the dragonpit, a cheerful echo in its near pitch-black depths. By the light of the torches, Aemond could barely make out your silhouette, but he could hear the lightness of your footsteps nevertheless.

For someone who had been the subject of vile accusations for the past month, you seemed awfully happy. You weren't always so thick-skinned, Aemond mused: when you were younger, he often caught you brooding in the dragonpit, sniffling at the way women talked about you and the way men leered at you. Any other child—himself included—would have been terrified to stay here, alone in darkness and brimstone, but your only friend for a long time was your dragon, so naturally his home was where you went when you were miserable. And you were very often miserable.

But you were now well-adjusted in your adulthood, apparently impervious to most insults and whispers about you. (What are they going to do? you often said dryly. Call me a tart? A temptress? That I belong in Flea Bottom? They’ve been saying that for years!) You had just taken the past month of scandal in stride, and now you seemed irreverent of it. It made Aemond tense: although he did not terribly mind that people mistook you for his lover, he still had appearances to manage. And he disliked it when people spoke ill of you. Ever since he had built a reputation as a respected prince, he made it clear that no one was to speak poorly of you before him. The only exception was his idiot brother, with whom he was meant to maintain the appearance of unity. The other day, he caught him monologuing about the ways in which he imagined Aemond was debasing you (“I hardly knew my brother had it in him! It surely had to be my cousin’s work—seducing the fierce Aemond One-Eye!”), and Aemond could scarcely hold himself back from maiming him. Still, his sword stayed within its sheath, his knuckles white and tense around its hilt.

He could not solve the issue of his brother with intimidation. Aemond could only caution you against fueling him: “If you keep talking like that, the whole of the Red Keep will start whispering about you again.”

You laughed. “Who’s going to overhear us? Will Vhagar be gossiping with Dreamfyre about our scandalous relationship?” You craned your neck, looking behind him. “Where is your old lady, anyhow? Can I give her a treat today?”

“Vhagar awaits us outside. You are always welcome to feed her, but the dragon keepers said there is a scarcity of lamb at the moment.”

“Ah, well. Let’s go find Wildfyre, then—I called for him earlier, but he didn't come. I bet he’s napping somewhere.” The two of you began walking, cutting a path through ash and crumbling bone. Aemond guided you around what looked like the fresh remains of cattle, and you thanked him, wrinkling your nose at the familiar stench of charcoal and rotting flesh.

“What you said about the lamb,” you started, “concerns me. Are the smallfolk short of livestock?”

“I have heard from the Hand that there is a sickness among the animals of the Reach, so the yield has been worse this year than most others.”

“How sad! I hope they’ll be alright.”

“The dragons are well-fed—the Hand has assured it.”

You gave Aemond a curious look. “I was speaking of the smallfolk, not the dragons.”

Aemond paused. “Of course,” he said, “the Hand will also ensure their well-being. I did not even think to question that.”

Truthfully, Aemond had not thought of the smallfolk at all, but he should have. Whenever he or Aegon spoke of the issues of the Realm, they were always your first concern—the farmers and the craftsmen and even the whores of Flea Bottom. Aegon said it was evidence of your commoner blood, but Aemond thought it was discerning of you. Were you born his eldest sister and not his eldest cousin, it would be evidence of your good judgement as a future ruler.

Though of course, if you had been his eldest sister, then you would have been wedded to Aegon—a thought that Aemond found exceptionally distasteful. In fact, the thought of any man touching you made his knuckles tighten around his sword, yet it was a reality that his mother had told him to make peace with many times.

Aemond, she told him the other day, looking at his tightly controlled expression, I know you have a great… fondness of your cousin. But the two of you are no longer children. It is improper for you to spend so much time around her. You would not want to compromise any future prospects for yourself, nor disgrace yourself in the eyes of the Seven. And god forbid you ruin her prospects. Your grandfather and I have been working hard to secure a good match for her—a difficult feat, given her parentage.

Unfortunately for Alicent, Aemond felt that the Seven could fuck themselves. And his prospects had always been lacking as the second son, but he would eventually overcome the circumstance of his birth. Aemond considered himself a loyal son, but he would not succumb to whatever mediocre designs his mother had for his future.

He would make sure that you would not, either.

“You seem happy,” he observed. “I take it your afternoon with Alicent went well?”

“Very well. I avoided a marriage to that Tully boy, and I think I may have even charmed your mother.” You flashed him a smile—one he'd been seeing since childhood, but of which he never tired. “She is now considering potential matches in the North for me. I'll likely be meeting potential suitors in the upcoming banquet—I do hope they’ll be handsome. And wealthy.”

Aemond did not bother trying to smile. “The North is very far.” He slipped into Valyrian: “You belong in the South, near skies filled with dragons and the waters of the old Freehold. You are a Targaryen, are you not?”

“I may be a Targaryen, but I am unwanted here,” you dismissed. Even after all these years, you spoke Valyrian with a Lysene accent, and—as often happened in private speech—you reverted to a vocabulary that was closer to the Low Valyrian of your mother rather than the High Valyrian taught by the maesters. Still, you were the only person in the whole of the capital more fluent in the language than Aemond; he only spoke as well as he did because he’d grown up practising with you. “The further I get away from the Red Keep, the less hated I will be.”

“But you will be alone.”

“I will have Wildfyre, my lord husband, and an entire castle of people to make friends with.”

“Or enemies of.”

“If I can charm Alicent Hightower, I do believe I can also charm anyone else in the Realm.” You grinned at him—though Aemond did not miss the careful look you gave him. “But if you're worried about being lonely, I can always fly back on Wildfyre and visit you.”

“You need not be concerned. I have many allies within the Red Keep.”

You stopped then, openly studying him. “It is—difficult,” you replied in the Common Tongue, “for me not to worry about you.”

His brow arched. Aemond could not help but stare, puzzled: you watched him enough on the training grounds to know that not only could he easily kill most men, but also that most men feared him for it.

“There are few people in this world who would worry about me,” he said neatly, and your look grew embarrassed.

“Yes, I know it’s silly of me. Why would I worry about the famed Aemond One-Eye, Prince of the Seven Kingdoms, Rider of Vhagar, and winner of countless tourneys?”

“Two. I've won two tourneys.”

“Well, that’s more tourneys than most will win in their lifetime. And I’m sure you'll win the one in the fortnight as well.”

Aemond did not see the point in denying it. “Perhaps. What of it?”

You breathed deeply, and Aemond could see on your face how much you were trying to be diplomatic. “What I mean to say is—you are a respected warrior with many allies. But an ally is not the same thing as a friend, and a sword cannot offer its wielder any reprieve. Sometimes I fear whom you will rely on if I leave.”

“You think I have no friends,” he said plainly, and you gave him a sheepish look. He did not smile.

“I’m just worried you don't have anyone you can actually trust here,” you explained.

Aemond would spurn the words coming from anyone else. He might even be inclined to intimidate them, simply to remind them of his position. A prince should not be so patronised.

But looking at you, with your worried eyes and furrowed brow, he thought of the two weeks you spent by his bedside as healed, and all those times you checked on him after chasing away Aegon, and how you took him dragon riding until he was as comfortable at it as you. You likely still saw the weak child he once was—a habit he could not fault you for, but which aggrieved him nevertheless.

He did not let his irritation show on his face.

“You need not worry, cousin. I do not need trust from anyone—only respect.” And respect was something he had in spades.

You gave him a dubious look, but relented. “Alright. Just know that you can always write to me, no matter how far away I am.”

Aemond hummed. He'd nearly forgotten your initial concern: the looming distance from him, the gap and loneliness that your marriage would supposedly create.

His mouth curled.

“I appreciate it, but I have the sense that you’ll end up closer to home than you think.”

“Oh? What do you mean?” Your brow knotted. “Has your mother said something to you?”

“Nothing concrete,” he replied smoothly. “But nevermind—let us fetch Wildfyre. We should fly out before the day grows any older.”

The thought of flying distracted you from all others. “Yes, it would be troublesome if we stayed out too long.”

“Where would you like to go?”

You grinned. “I'll race you to Spicetown? We can go to the market and be back by midnight.”

“Midnight?” Aemond sounded—was—amused. What a free-spirited thing you were, to be careless enough to return to the Red Keep with him after curfew. “This is why those rumours started in the first place, you know.”

“It was worth the trouble, don’t you think? Or are you going to deny me now?”

He could not. Aemond was a disciplined man—his goals could not allow for much error in his life—but he also found it impossible not to humour any request from you. He did not have many joys in his childhood, and he had never outgrown his habit of wishing for the joy you brought with your happiness. It was hard for him not to indulge you.

In fact, this wish you had for your future—to marry some trifling lord beneath you and move far away from King’s Landing, the place in which you belonged—would be the first thing he would ever deny you.

END PART I

thanks for reading! if you enjoyed this, please do reblog and let me know what you think - I would mega appreciate it <3

[paulyenvol6]

Sweet Pleas

This is based on a request I received but I accidentally deleted it, I'm so sorryyy. I was lucky though because I wrote down the main points before and wrote something about it which I'm very excited to share. So to the person that sent the request: this is for you and thank you so much for your request. And to everyone else: Please send me all of your requests, I want to write want you want to hear and read your ideas :)

Here's a little summary of what the person requested: - Daemon x dornish/essosi wife with a good and stable relationship - degrading, mean, dom Daemon - denied orgasms, choking, marking, praising - aftercare and fluff

Contains: detailed smut, fingering, oral (m receiving), p in v, unprotected sex, choking, marking, biting, bruising, slapping, degrading, praising, denied orgasms, size kink, slight pain kink, dom & mean Daemon, submissive reader, aftercare, fluff, loving Daemon in the end

Wordcount: ~4.65k

Masterlist

"My sweet lady wife.", Daemon whispered against your ear and you felt heat rising in your cheeks. You giggled as he wrapped his arms around your waist and kissed next to your ear.

"You really expected me to make it through the night with you looking like that?"

You smiled which he couldn't see and caressed his back. In truth it had been your intention for him to desire you and touch you after the feast in celebration of the King's name day but you hadn't expected him to be so eager that he couldn't wait until it was over.

You had worn a revealing pink dress that looked amazing on your brown skin and as Daemon painfullly had to experience, your husband hadn't been the only one to notice your beauty. Lords and knights had their gaze a little to long on you for the Rogue Prince's liking so he had taken you up to your chambers for two reasons. Not only because he couldn't wait to lay his hands on you but so he could hide you from the other men's eyes. And you didn't complain but felt light and happy as your husband took hold of your hips and dug his fingers into your skin.

'Daemon, Daemon, Daemon' was the only thought in your head. It was always like this. He took control of every thought of yours and left you feeling consumed by him.

It wasn't like your marriage had always been that good. You were 26 now and had married the Rogue Prince 7 years ago when he was 24. It had been a political arrangement and far away from a love match because the crown had been at war with Dorne for a long time and to seal the new peace treaty, your father had given your hand to the King's brother who had happened to be a widower.

In the beginning the capital had been strange and odd, Daemon was foreign to you but over the time the two of you had started to develop a special bond and began to love each other. You had learned together, made experiences and now you couldn't imagine living without him. He understood you in ways no one had ever been capable of and… you just matched. He had shown you what pleasure meant and had taught you the arts of intimacy between man and wife. And now you were inseperable and each day that he wasn't by your side felt like there was a shadow hanging over it.

"My sweet girl.", he now whispered as his hands wandered up to caress the swell of your breasts, just very light and careful and you reached out to press him closer to you which he commented with a scoff.

"So needy.", he complained and shook his head. "I think someone forgot their manners." You moaned dissatisfied and Daemon grabbed your wrists with his left hand and held them in front of your body.

"Just be a good girl for me and take what I give you." You looked up to him with big eyes and he couldn't help himself but lean down to kiss you. You simply looked too delightful and delicate with your big brown doll eyes. Your husband decided to change your position and so simply picked you up and gently laid you down on the bed. As you were getting comfortable on your back Daemon slowly took off his shirt and he made sure to keep eye contact the entire time.

"Such a filthy little whore.", he growled as he approached you, sat down next to you on the bed and leaned down to kiss your already swollen lips.

"You just enjoy it too much, don't you? Seeing all those lord's eyes on you." His voice sounded husky and dark and it made your cunt clench around nothing. "I asked you a question.", he snapped and grabbed your chin.

"Y-Yes I enjoy it." Daemon smirked evily and suddenly, still sitting next to your lying figure, reached down and slipped his right hand under your gown and cupped your sex. You were surprised and instinctively closed your legs around his hand which he commented with a scoff. Meanwhile his left hand caressed your bare shoulder and also slightly pressed you in the sheets as if he knew that he would need to have his hand there once he started pleasuring you and you would move around on the bed. Daemon gently moved his hand on your cunt so you received just a little friction but you needed so much more so you squirmed and spread your legs further.

"Please. Daemon, do something." If you had expected him to give in you really didn't know your husband because he just smirked smugly and ran his finger through your slit.

"So fucking wet already.", he mumbled. "You really are a greedy little slut. Just need to pin you down on your back and you're dripping. Pitiful."

Your eyes fluttered and you really felt as if you were in paradise because this kind of Daemon was the one you needed. Obviously you hadn't known about your tastes when you had married him but with him you had explored what brought you pleasure and learned that you never felt more comfortable and desired than when he degraded you. Talked to you as if you were nothing but a common whore to please him. That mixture of degrading and praising made you melt.

Daemon, who had felt how turned on you already were, finally connected his thumb with your little pearl and circled it painfully slow. You whimpered and shivered and squirmed underneath his hand in an attempt to get more friction but of course he wouldn't have this so his hand on your shoulder pressed you down with more force and he watched you with flashing eyes.

"Stop moving so much. Little whores like you take what they're given. Cause that's what you are after all. A little whore to do with however I wish. A set of holes, each tighter and warmer than the other. We shall see which I'll use today."

It was insane what his words did to you and of course Daemon knew it as well so he used them to turn you into a muddle. Your eyes threatened to close when his thumb rubbed your pearl faster and his left hand grabbed your chin at once.

"No. Look at me, little one."

Your eyelids felt heavy and yet you obeyed him. You were beyond overwhelmed with his touch on your cunt and his voice that said these filthy things that made your heart beat faster. When he thrusted two fingers deep inside your hole you widened your eyes and your mouth formed an 'O'. As he was still sitting next to you on the edge of the bed he was in the perfect position to watch each of your reactions to his touch and words which brought him great delight. The way your eyes fluttered and how you bit your lip now and then… Your little sighs were music to his ears but when you couldn't help but close your eyes in pleasure a little later he let out a disappointed exhalation and slapped your cunt all of a sudden.

"Ahh.", you let out and twitched.

"I told you. Look at me." He yanked your thick brown hair back to expose your neck to him and lowered his face so it was close to your skin. You knew what would happen now and when he started to suck on your tanned skin you anxiously buried your hands in his hair. You didn't exactly love when he marked you with bites and bruises. Not because you didn't like the pain, no, in fact you loved it. But you feared that people would see it and felt ashamed of the thought so Daemon didn't do it very often. But tonight he seemingly wanted to do it, perhaps even to punish you and you were way too deep in your subspace to stop him. Everything you cared about was being good for him. Please him. So you patiently laid still as his mouth bit and sucked at your skin but only twitched now and then when his teeth pulled at your neck.

Daemon's hand hadn't left your cunt though and you felt yourself getting closer and closer to the edge. His two fingers filling your hole additionally to his dance on your pearl were overwhelming and made you see stars. So soon you felt your high approach and you clenched around his fingers which your husband took as a sign to stop and you let out a cry.

"No, Daemon please." You pulled at his hair and tried to make him lift his head so you could look at him but he denied you and just slapped your cunt in response.

"Shut up.", he mumbled against your hurting skin. "You'll get to release when I tell you to. And I'm not yet satisfied." You desperately whined and shifted which made Daemon softly slap you again but this time on your thigh.

"Stay still. I'll only be harder on you if you can't behave."

Then, after a few more moments he raised his head to proudly watch his work on your neck. You were bleeding a little at two spots and few bruises were already visible on your brown skin which made his heart flutter with possessiveness.

"I want all of these lords to see this. See that you're mine and that this fucking body is mine… Seven hells, you really are the prettiest little girl I've ever fucked."

His finger started to toy with your cunt again and you stopped sulking and sighed loudly. In the meantime his left hand connected with your chest through the fabric of your gown that you still wore and he took your nipples between his fingers.

"Will you look at this…", he growled and you could only watch his lustful gaze in awe. "Perfect fucking tits. Perfect skin and a perfect little cunt."

"Daemon.", you whimpered and his eyes wandered back to your face.

"What?", he scoffed disparagingly and pushed you into the bed more forcefully as you restlessly moved underneath his hand.

"Please I-I want to come."

He laughed out. "I don't care what you want. I just need you to spread your legs and look pretty for me."

You were not content with his answer but didn't have a choice but to unpaitenly wait for his next movements. His two fingers were shoved back inside of you and it didn't take long until you were close to the edge again. But just when you were about to cross it and already felt relieved because you thought he would allow you to reach your high now he stopped again and tears welled in the corner of your eyes.

"N-No.", you cried out. "Yes.", he merely spoke and suddenly manhandeled you on your stomach. "Stop complaining now or I'll find myself a willing whore and leave you here."

Of course you knew that he would never do something like that and yet you shut your mouth. You turned your head to rest it on your side so you could look at him but Daemon grabbed a fistful of your hair and pressed your face into the pillow which you commented with a moan.

"Spread your legs.", he breathed and slipped his hand between your thighs once more and soon his fingers danced on your pearl. You were a mess and couldn't control neither your mind nor your body. Your legs were shaking, your cunt soaking his hand and your mind couldn't think of anything except your husband's hands and how to make him let you come. Pleading and begging, you thought was your best chance.

"Please Daemon. I swear I'll be good, but please let me come.", you moaned when he granted you a little more space and you were able to move your head slightly.

But Daemon really seemed to be mean today and just pressed your head back into the pillow. "Gods, aren't you a desperate little brat. Can't even be patient for a little moment."

You cried out at a particulary well aimed thrust with his fingers that reached a spot deep inside of you.

"Mhmm… Poor girl.", he furthermore said. "Such a pretty poor girl. What a shame you're not in control here."

You whimpered in distress and tried to free yourself from his grip in your hair but you didn't stand a chance and could only get on with it as he denied your orgasm for the third time tonight and did all of it so smugly. You remained still and determined not to give your husband the satisfaction of your pleas so after he had ruined your high Daemon turned you on your back again. His body sitting next to your lying one probably only intensified feeling vulnerable and small next to him because he towered over you. Then his finger toyed with your pearl again which made you gasp for air, his other hand wandered to your mouth and without a warning he shoved two fingers inside of it. You moaned and twirled your tongue around it.

"Good girl.", he growled which made your walls clench. "So obedient and tamed. Just a wild little dornish Princess who needs to be told what to do. That's what you like, mhm?"

You moaned as a reply and sucked on his fingers that laid heavily on your tongue and made you now and then gag. You did all of it instinctively as your mind felt fucked out though he hadn't even freed his cock yet. But that turned out to change soon because after fucking your mouth with his hands for a while and enjoying watching your face tense in pleasure when his finger pressed into your little pearl, he stopped all of it all of a sudden and left you panicky as he stood up to pull down his pants.

"Get on your knees." Your mind felt fuzzy but you had been able to comprehend his words and so you got off the bed to kneel in front of him. His cock stood hard and looked so pretty against his abdomen that it made you open your mouth greedily. But before shoving his cock inside your mouth Daemon walked to the nightstand which made you frown feeling confused. You couldn't see what it was he was doing but once he was standing in front of you again Daemon lowered himself down to you and started to tie up your hair in a braid, mayhaps so he could take hold of your head better.

When he was done he straightened up again and Daemon smirked and felt his heart burning with desire for you. You, his little wife on your knees for him with these big eyes staring up to him. He wished he could save this image in his head for the rest of his life. You still had your dress on and though you had been living in King's Landing for a while now you remained loyal to your house's traditional dressing and wore a characteristic dornish gown. You truly looked like a dornish Princess with your jewelery and your dark features and Daemon's head spinned.

He wrapped his hand around his thick cock and circled your mouth with its tip which made you reach out to touch his cock greedily but he refused you. Daemon just pushed your hand away and moved closer to you.

"Open.", he demanded and looked at your mouth. Of course you obeyed him and let his cock slip inside of your mouth. Daemon seemingly didn't care about letting you adjust slowly because he hit the back of your throat which you commented with a gag. You tried to get away from him and squirmed but his hand had grabbed your hair and forced you to stay in place.

"Ugh uhm.", he made. "Stay still, sweet girl. Just stay still and let me fuck this filthly little mouth of yours.", he hissed and you tried your best to breathe calmly. Daemon breathed heavily as he started to thrust into your mouth as a steady pace. He didn't grant you a second to let you do as you liked but immediately took control over your head to merely use you for his liking.

"You're doing so… good for me, little one." His hand had grabbed your hair and he held you still while hitting the back of your throat over and over again. You struggled every once in a while and coughed but your aim was to hear him praise you so you did whatever he told you. And it worked. You twirled your tongue around his tip which made him exhale loudly and his eyes were connected with your kneeling figure.

"Fuck, just like that. Good girl." You pressed your thighs together and could feel the familiar pulsating spot in your core. After all you hadn't come yet and sucking your husband off only contributed to your lust.

After a while saliva, precum and some tears were rolling down your face and everything about it was messy. Neither of you cared though and Daemon only entered your mouth at a faster pace. Your hands had grabbed his thighs for support and he hummed in pleasure as he felt your tongue circling his tip.

"Yeah. That's what you're good for, mhm? Having your dirty mouth fucked instead of speaking up. That's where you're the prettiest as well." He watched you smugly and your big eyes looked up to him.

"Gods be good.", he growled. "Never had such a willing thing on her knees for me. I'll make sure to reward you, pretty girl."

His thrusts became more sloppy and forceful which was a sign for you that he would orgasm soon but he stopped and pulled your head away from his cock.

"I wanna save my seed for your tight cunt. You're gonna swallow it another time.", he hissed and dragged you up by your hair.

Once you stood in front of him he pushed you onto the bed and didn't waste any time to crawl on top of you. You whimpered, feeling so much lust and desire for him that the tiniest of his movements made your insides burn. Daemon forcefully spreaded your legs so he could lay between them and you were happy to obey. Then he wrapped his hand around his cock and ran its tip through your slit stopping at your pearl.

"You want it?", he mumbled against your cheek.

"Mhmm.", you made with your hands buried in his hair.

"I didn't hear you."

"Yes. Please Daemon." But he still didn't give in and instead drew circles around your little nub.

"I'm not sure if you can take it, little one.", he mumbled.

"Yes I can. Please. I can take it.", you panicky cried out though deep down you should know that he wouldn't stop now.

"Don't want to tear you apart, sweet princess.", Daemon whispered and you squeezed his hand that was rested on your waist.

"Please. I want it." Your husband smirked widely because your begging got right to his head. Then he finally thrusted into you mayhaps because he was too eager himself and you both sighed loudly. His thick cock stretched your walls so well and you just loved feeling full.

"Yes.", you whined and your eyes rolled back.

"Feel me deep in your belly, mhm?", he hissed, overwhelmed with pleasure himself. "Feel me hard against your walls? Yes… that's it."

Daemon had immediately started to fuck you at a steady pace and his hips snapped against yours. You let out little sighs and whines and then felt his hand wandering up your body until he wrapped it around your neck and put pressure on it. You breathed croakily and your eyes met his as he held you tightly. You felt your hole flutter because you loved it so much when he choked you and Daemon knew it. So his hand pressed you in the feather bed and simultaneously used it as support to fuck you deep and hard. The mixture drove you to madness and you were a mess underneath him. He always made sure to loosen his grip around your throat now and then so some air could fill your lungs but he didn't show any sign of letting go of you. He restricted your breathing in a way that made you melt in his arms and in Daemon's eyes you could see pure lust.

"Pathetic.", he growled as he squeezed your neck tighter. "All I need to do is stuff your holes and wrap my hand around your throat and I have you whining for me. But you're not supposed to like this. Being hurt. You're just a little slut who gets off on the pain." You moaned and opened your mouth to gasp for air.

"But you're my little slut.", he growled against your cheek. "And now everyone can see that when they look at your neck. You're mine to do with as I like. Whenever I like. A dumb little brat who happens to have a nice tight cunt. So fucking pretty.", he purred and kissed your jawline.

Then he slightly loosened his grip again and you inhaled deeply. Daemon's hand that previously had been around your throat wandered down between where your bodies were connected to rub at your pearl. While you tried to collect yourself you felt him circle the nub that was so swollen and eager for release by now that you squeezed your eyes and whimpered.

"I wanna hear you, princess. Go on, I wanna hear your sweet little pleas." You moved along with his hips and now and then quietly moaned your husband's name. When you reached out to grab the sides of his face though he took hold of your wrists with his hand that wasn't occupied between your legs and pinned them down above your head on the bed. You felt so exposed and vulnerable but it was exactly what you needed and it felt so good. The only thing that you craved at the moment was to finally reach your high after he had denied your orgasm so many times so you begged him through your eyes as both of you were driven closer to the edge with each of his thrusts.

"Please. Please let me come.", you said and it sounded almost inaudible. Daemon sensed that he had fucked you deep into submission and you were nothing but a whining mess by now and suddenly he felt the need to take care of his needy wife rather than degrading you even further so he leaned down to kiss you gently.

"Don't worry, love. You were so amazing for me. I'll let you come. I'll let you soak my cock with your juices." You felt yourself getting teary eyes from feeling so small and now you just wanted Daemon to be close to you so you squirmed as he still had your wrists pinned above your head and your husband understood and actually let go of you.

"It's alright.", he purred. "Relax and let go."

And you did. With one last tight circle around your pearl you felt your insides tense and this warm overwhelming feeling spread all throughout your body. It was an amazing high and you had your eyes widened as pleasure washed over you. His name left your lips over and over again and then Daemon released as well. His seed filled your cunt and he thrusted deep inside of you to make sure it wouldn't drip out. He moaned and closed his eyes and collapsed on top of you.

You both panted heavily trying to recover from the exhausion and then after a while he rolled off you. You immediately reached out to him though and Daemon knew that you needed him close to you now so he pulled you to his bare chest.

"Shhh.", he whispered feeling you breathe fastly against him and soothingly ran a hand over your back and side. "Did so good for me, little girl… ", he said his voice nothing more than a whisper. He held you like this for a while so the both of you could collect yourselves but then he lightly patted your hip.

"I need to get you cleaned, love." You hummed in dissatisfaction wanting nothing more than to fall asleep now next to him.

"I'm sorry, but it's important. Come on, love." Slowly and with a deep frown you lifted yourself and looked at Daemon who had his eyebrows raised. "It's not gonna take long and afterwards I'll cuddle you to sleep, I promise."

You couldn't help but smile with big eyes and he pulled you towards him and guided you off the bed. There was a pot filled with warm water that Daemon had asked the servants to prepare for him every night because there weren't many nights when you were able to take your hands off each other and your husband didn't have the desire to ask a servant to bring water to clean yourselves with every evening so he had ordered them to prepare in advance. It wasn't burning hot anymore but it wouldn't be umcomfortable so Daemon guided you to sit on a chair while he dipped a warm cotton cloth in the water.

"Spread your legs, love.", he whispered and his voice made your head dizzy. You obeyed and he brought the cloth between your legs to clean your cunt. You twitched a little because you were sore and swolled so your husband ran his other hand over your thigh to calm you. Then, when he was finished Daemon removed it from between your legs and took care of himself. He cleaned his cock and after he had put the towels on a shelf so the servants could take them in the morrow Daemon turned to you again and had a soft smile on his face which made your heart flutter. His arms wrapped around your back and he carefully picked you up from the chair. He walked the two of you back to the bed and gently laid you down on your side while crawling to lay on his'.

The rogue prince kept his promise and reached out to pull you to him and you croached against him. You felt so safe like this with his arms holding you and his body covering and protecting you from everything else. His nose was pressed into your dark hair and his hands caressed your still burning skin.

"My sweet girl.", he whispered well aware that it was what you needed after a night like this. He had degraded you, talked down to you and now he made sure to treat you with affection and love.

"You're my sunshine, never forget this alright?" You nodded against him and he gently put his hand to your cheek to turn your head so you were looking at him.

"I love you, darling. You're everything to me." Your mouth was drawn to a smile and Daemon leaned down to kiss you.

"I'll always protect you and make sure you're safe and happy."

"I love you too, Daemon.", you whispered quietly and rested your cheek on his strong chest again. You closed your eyes filled with content and happiness. You loved him and you loved his tender and caring side just as much as his rough and dominant one. This was exactly the perfect mixture because while he fucked you you liked him to be mean and commanding but afterwards…. You melted in his arms and loved hearing his sweet words whispered in your ear. Only for you to hear.

"Sleep, love. You need to rest now and I promise you that I'll hold you all night and all nights to come."

[missisjoker]

I love me some blushing virgin!Y/N x Loving Husband!Cregan fics, but may I present you with a different dynamic?

Y/N is a bastard baby sister of Daemon and Viserys, whom Viserys marries off to a rich old merchant from Penthos and sends away at the age of 14. Your husband dies, and you have to fight tooth and nail to survive, but you make it. Then, 15 years later, a letter comes from Dragonstone asking for your help. You have zero interest in Westerosi politics, but you have a soft spot for Jace and Luke, so you book a ship and go to Dragonstone.

Rhaenyra offers you legitimacy and a good new match- you say yes to first, and absolutely no to the second (you'd rather go to Lys and become a whore than marry another obnoxious man ever again). Then she leads you to the dragon pit, and- to your absolute horror- Vermithor chooses you as his new rider.

A week ago, you were a childless, divorced, and very rich Penthosi woman, and now you're suddenly a true Targaryen on a dragon in the middle of a civil war.

Your first order of business is defying Rhaenyra’s order and sneaking out to follow Luke to Storms end because you have a tingling something might go wrong. Something does, but because or your timely arrival, Luke survives.

While the queen is still seething and musing what to do, Daemon sends you to Winterfell to negotiate with the Starks.

The good news is, Lord Stark is an honorable, rational and practical man. And one your business prowess and Essosi contacts score him more provisions than he has ever dreamed of, he declares for the Blacks and orders to gather the Northern army immediately.

The bad news is, he is handsome, and brave, and headstrong, and - to your surprise- very charming , once you get to know him better. His dry sense of humor never fails to make you laugh. And you realize, for the first time of your life, you desire- genuinely, carnally and mentally desire a man. Something you promised yourself never to suffer from.

And the worst news is, the desire is very much reciprocated.

You spend two nights with him before departing to Dragonstone. The first is what you imagined your wedding night would be- full of passion, and a bit of shyness at first, but pleasant and exhilarating beyond measure. You let him lead, you let him do things to you that bring you pleasure you have not experienced before. Lord stark is gentle, but relentless, and you’re nothing more than a withering and moaning mess in his strong hands.

The second night… you took the initiative. There was a good chance you’d never see him again, so you took your time and effort to make him feel loved, and worshipped, you kissed every scar and every freckle on his body. You kneaded and soothed his muscles until he melted in your arms. You took him in your mouth and then mounted him and stole every moan that escaped his lips.

You traced your fingers through his hair as he drifted to sleep in your arms.

The next morning, when you were saying your good byes, he told you that, should he survive the war, he will sue for your hand.

You told him kindly, that you’re not the best match for him, you’re older, and might not give him a child, and you don’t belong in the north..

“I already have a heir, and there are plenty of orphans. You own my heart and my soul, what’s left is only my hand. I would make you lady Stark, if you’d have me”.

I would , you thought to yourself and it scared you how much you wanted it.

You soared above the clouds and took course south.

To seven hells, of course I would. I want nothing else now, damn you, Stark, what have you done to me?

Vermithor roared, as if asking a question.

“It’s alright, my fearless. I just have to make sure we survive this bloody war”.

[sco-ot]

even if alicent decided that fuck it, she wanted rhaenyra as queen and her kids safe and decided to take them to essos, they still wouldn't be safe.

1. the essosi care about westerosi politics and have been involved before. we see this with jaehaerys having to intervene between pentos and tyrosh, something that they asked him to do, jaehaerys also employed rego draz of pentos as master of coin. when his daughter saera targaryen ended up in essos, jaehaerys said that lys would have waged a war to keep her and despite not being from westeros some of her sons went to present their claims at the great council of 101, probably supported by various essosi nobles. we see this with daemon and laena, who were hosted by nobles, who tried to demand their daughter's hands in marriage in return for their hospitality. and we also see this when viserys and daenerys are hosted and protected by essosi nobles, who all wanted something in return.

so even if alicent and her children had escaped to essos, there was no guarantee that the essosi would have let them live there peacefully without bothering them, asking for dragons and marriage, offering to put aegon on the throne for favours or asking them to intervene in essosi politics.

2. even if despite the risks they decided that they would go, how would they do it? if they tried before viserys died they would be declared traitors and have prices on their heads, and even if they managed to escape westeros there is no guarantee that some essosi wouldn't kill them for the gold. and if they escaped and no one came for them, how would they live? daemon and laena lived on the charity of essosi nobles, alicent and her children, should they escape would likely be forced to do the same bc any money that they managed to save/steal would eventually run out, and said nobles would only host them if they believed that they had something to offer them.

if they tried after viserys' death, then they would have to orchestrate it before rhaenyra could come to kl, and before otto could crown aegon. bc if rhaenyra came to kl and they were still there, aegon, aemond, jaehaerys (and maelor) would all be in danger. and in all this how would they get daeron? he's in oldtown, any messages/ravens he gets are probably watched and flying to get him would have given pursuers time to catch up and stop their escape.

and after all these challenges, should they make it to essos and find a nice hidden plot of land that can sustain them all and settle down they still wouldn't be safe. dragons are hardly inconspicuous, especially four grown adults and two hatchlings (one of those adults is vhagar, who is literally the size of a small mountain), someone will realise where they are eventually and daemon, having plenty of friends and contacts in essos could easily send an assassin to remove the threat.

so no matter what they do, they will never be safe.

[perfinn]

the heat that drives the light

aemond targaryen x tyrell!oc - part ii

wc: 4.4k

summary: aemond confronts his mother about his betrothed, but the wedding goes ahead, leaving the prince to grapple with his complicated feelings toward the tyrell girl

cw: NSFW, blind character, period typical ableism, ableism in general, for prosperity dubcon (because aemond is (allegedly) not into cecily but he still feels like he has to do his duty. but both parties consent), period typical misogyny, aegon being a creep, allusions to aemond's 13th name day

masterlist, read on ao3, divider by saradika

Cecily Tyrell had not yet reached her seventh name day when she fell ill. A visit to the Arbour struck the young Lady down with an illness that not even the finest of the citadel’s archmaesters could name. It was believed she contracted it from a passing sailor on the docks of the Arbour, explaining away the mysterious nature of the sickness. Some maesters, younger and full of ideas, suggested it had come from Qarth, the work of some warlock testing the potential of pestilence as a form of warfare in enemy lands. Others, more experienced and grounded, were sure it was only some disease that the Essosi had grown strong against, that had gone from Essos so long ago no one had thought to mention it to Westerosi sailors on their shores. It had only struck Cecily because she was so young, they had supposed. 

But, regardless of anyone’s theories, there was no real answer. It was a mystery to all but the gods, Cecily’s mother had once said. Despite that no one had any real knowledge of the illness Lady Cecily’s father, Lord Martyn Tyrell, did not rest in having her treated. Cecily was his only child, and her birth had near killed his wife. He had no other heir, yes, but his determination was born from far more than the issue of succession. To lose his Cecily would be to lose half his heart. 

Cecily survived, of course, and thankfully did not infect another. However, despite all the treatment her little body could handle, her vision had been taken from her. She could not see a thing but for a blur of colours, and even then only in the bright sunlight. 

“I’ve come to see my mother.”

Criston Cole looks the young prince over with a carefully neutral gaze. Aemond is certain Cole knows how to read him, certain he sees the tension lacing his shoulders almost up to his ears. He does not care, though, what the knight sees. 

“Cole.”

Cole appears to contemplate another moment before he nods and opens the door to the queen’s solar, announcing Aemond’s arrival. 

Alicent stands to greet him, eyes following him as he stalks into the room, standing across from her. Her face, which had been a smile to greet her son, falls to a confused frown. 

“Something is the matter,” she says, tone lowered inquisitively. She broaches the topic with a statement, not a question. She knows Aemond better than she knows her other children, can read him like a book at the worst of times. They’re alike, perhaps too alike. 

“I’ve seen the Tyrell girl.”

Alicent closes her mouth, exhaling deeply through her nose and lowering herself to sit again. She pinches the bridge of her nose, taking a moment before looking back at her son. “You weren’t supposed to see her until the wedding.”

“I’m aware,” says Aemond, voice clipped. “And I can see why. I won’t wed her.”

“This is not up for negotiation, Aemond.”

“I’m not going to suffer this humiliation just for political gain,” he says sharply. “Just because I’ve lost half my sight-”

“I did not pick her for you because of her blindness,” Alicent says, standing back up and approaching the tense prince. “How could I do that to you? When have you known me to have anything but your best interests at heart? I chose her for you because I believe she is a fine match. She is as shrewd as she is pretty, she has a sense of humour, she has a political mind, and someday she will be the Wardeness of the South. A fine one, at that. If I had wanted an easy political alliance, I would have offered her Daeron’s hand. It would have been a lot quicker. They could have wed in Highgarden and it could be done by now. But I want for my children to be happy, Aemond.”

Aemond hums and bites back a remark about Helaena and Aegon, but he’s just rational enough to hear his mother out. It will do little good to hear her reasoning, though. Her good intentions cannot dull the blow of his embarrassment. 

“I believe that the two of you can build something wonderful together,” Alicent says, taking Aemond’s arms. Her touch is gentle, a comfort, but not one Aemond wants to be given now. 

Aemond can hardly unclench his jaw enough to speak in clear sentences. “Then why was she to be kept from me?” 

“The decision was not mine. Lord Martyn wished for her to be kept separate from you until you meet her at the ceremony.”

Aemond shifts, an odd swell of defensiveness building in his chest. Not for her, he tells himself. For me. “He is ashamed of her?”

“Quite the opposite. He loves that girl more than anything, he is just worried. He fears there is an issue of succession, he is paranoid Cecily’s claim will be threatened.”

Sounds like someone else I know, thinks Aemond bitterly. 

“He doesn't want anything to jeopardise this union, including you.”

“He was right to worry, mother,” he snaps, pulling away from her. “I will not be forced into this union. I am owed more than an invalid!”

“Aemond,” hisses Alicent. “You can hate this until the day you die, but it is happening, and you will try to be a good husband to her. We must make sacrifices for the sake of our family.”

She thinks he is being irrational, and perhaps she’s right. But he has earned the right to irrationality, has he not? He was robbed of his eye, he received no retribution, and now it is all anyone ever sees. His mother can speak all she wishes of Cecily’s attributes, it is all overshadowed by her weakness. A weakness he does not share, no matter what anyone would whisper. How much more must he sacrifice for the sake of this family?

He clenches his jaw, turning away from his mother and moving to leave the room. “You do not know me as well as you thought you did. You should have saved everyone the time and married her to Daeron.”

Despite Aemond’s week of staunch refusal and threats to fly off on dragonback and never return, the wedding goes ahead. Somehow, he’s wrestled into the Red Keep’s sept and made to await his bride. 

Instead of his preferred dark green clothing, he’s been forced into a black doublet with a dark red undershirt. It makes him uncomfortable not for the feel of it – the fabric is luscious and comfortable and it fits him perfectly – but for what the colours represent. That he is a prince of House Targaryen. This he knows, of course, but it feels nothing more than a name to him. He feels that Hightower blood flows far stronger through him than any other, though he would never dare admit it aloud. 

No one would understand him. No one ever has. 

He fiddles with the dark red silk poking out of his sleeve, expression turned down in the scowl that’s made itself quite at home on his face, loathing the thing. He does not make a habit of fidgeting with his clothes, but his hatred for the fabric overpowers his usual composure. 

(Why do you bother, Aemond? he thinks. She will not even see it.)

If his father had any say in it Aemond would surely have the Three Headed Dragon emblazoned across his damned eyepatch, just to drive the message home. Maybe his betrothed’s blindness has spared him of that, for she’d never be able to appreciate it anyway. He’s certain that this tiny mercy is all her disability will ever do for him. 

When the murmuring sept falls quiet, Aemond clenches his fists by his side. He remains facing the statues of the Mother and the Father, watching the way the sun filters through stained glass and lights up the visage of the gods as his betrothed approaches him. He only turns when she is behind him, prepared to take her hand from her father.

Aemond expects to see what he’s come to expect of House Tyrell; opulence and shining silk inlaid with gems, disgusting shows of wealth for the sake of maintaining their status. He hates it, most ardently, but he finds he does not see it reflected in Cecily. 

Cecily’s face is hidden by a gauzy ivory veil, embroidered with pale pink roses. Her dress is creamy white, similarly embroidered with all manner of flowers the names of which Aemond could not hope to recall. It is well made and no doubt expensive, but it is not so far into the realm of ostentation that he wishes to turn away in disgust, he would go so far as to call it… pretty. 

She looks pretty, in ivory lace and the fern green maiden’s cloak that lays over her shoulders. He almost dreads to lift her veil and be so harshly reminded of the cloud over her eyes. He takes her hand, gently guiding her up the steps. 

“Last one,” he murmurs, instantly cursing himself for his kindness to her when she murmurs her thanks. He does not understand himself. He understands himself even less when he hesitates before he reaches for her veil. “Your veil. May I?”

(He does not like her but he will not be a cruel husband. He will not delight in frightening her, he will take whatever care he must to be better than the husbands in his family. She is a rose most delicate, more so than any other. No matter his resentment, she will be his wife and hence shall be handled with care.)

He sees that shrewd smile behind her veil, and sees her nod. “Of course.”

Gods, her voice is sweeter than he remembers. The memories of it which have echoed in his head each night since they met do it no justice. 

He takes her veil between his gloved fingers, lifting it up over her face and settling it over the crown of flowers that secure it to her hair. Her eyes are turned up to him, even if she does not see. He sees the greyish film over them and the gentle feelings are frozen, replaced once more with resentment. 

If he were to turn and run now, would anyone dare to stop him?

Alas, he stays where he is and goes through the proceedings of the union as he’s expected to. Despite his ample protests, there is still a large part of him that longs to be his mother’s dutiful son. 

He reaches to remove the green cloak from her shoulders, running his thumb gently over the embroidered gold trim, and replaces it with one of red and black. Black dragons dance across the fabric, and a smile dances across Cecily’s face. 

With the septon’s blessing and declaration of their union, Aemond takes both her hands. He hesitates a moment as he sees Cecily close her eyes, wondering what’s going on in her head. Is she afraid? Excited? He finds her impossible to read, and he finds it’s driving him mad. Still, he leans down and presses his lips gently to hers. They’re petal soft against his but he does not let it linger. 

He fears if he does he will get lost in it, in the smell of flowers on her skin and the softness of her pink lips. He will not fall to the weak man’s game of lust, no matter if she is his wife under the Seven’s eye. The sept erupts into cheers for the new couple, and Aemond does not miss the way Cecily flinches at the sudden barrage of noise. 

He finds himself cursing their guests for frightening his wife, and he does not know why. 

Aemond is not granted a moment to speak with Cecily until the two of them are sitting beside one another at their wedding banquet, his new wife placed on the side of his good eye. 

The food is placed before them, and the first words his bride speaks to him in near-privacy are, “What have they prepared?”

Aemond taps his finger against the arm of his chair, looking between Cecily and the meal before him. “You seemed to have a keen sense of smell when last we met.”

Cecily chuckles, nodding slowly as she feels across the table for her fork. “As far as anyone but you, Flora, and myself is concerned, that meeting did not happen. But yes, I can smell things better than most, though it may only take me so far. I can smell, hm… fowl, and vegetables, and I can smell spiced honey, and of course the wine that flows from our cups.”

Aemond looks down at his plate, scowling at the sheer aptitude of her nose’s instinct. “It is honey glazed duck with stewed vegetables.”

“Ah!” Cecily delights, brightening with a smile. “It has been some time since my nose has served me this well. The Gods must smile on us today.”

Aemond scoffs. “The Gods have more important matters to tend to than what a blind girl smells for her dinner.”

“The Seven looks upon us always, lord husband, always,” she says as she begins to eat her food. Aemond scowls. She seems pious, even if she does not act as demure as a woman should. He supposes that very few women he knows do, so he shouldn’t be surprised.

Cecily does not bother him while they eat, but he watches her and sees she has not switched off. She is listening to the conversations around her, brow turned down in focus. Aemond looks away from her and to the wine in his cup, finding himself trying to do the same. He does not tune into much except half a hushed conversation between his mother and his older brother. 

He hears the words “abhorrent” and “heretical” hissed from his mother, and decides the conversation is not one worth hearing. It does not surprise him to hear that said to Aegon.

When dinner is finished and their empty plates carried away, Cecily leans toward Aemond again. 

“I am sorry we cannot share a dance,” she says. 

Aemond looks over at her, seeing her hands are tracing once more over the embroidery of her dress. She had been doing the same when he barged into her chambers last week. Perhaps it’s a comfort for her. “I hate dancing.”

Cecily smiles at him. “I see. Lucky for us both then. Dancing with a partner is an impossibility with no vision, I can imagine halved vision only makes it an ordeal.”

“Mmm,” hums Aemond, feeling that he should be upset by her words. He hates for it to be brought up, but she’s correct. The lack of vision on one side makes dancing a near impossible task. Maybe he was wrong about her blindness offering him only one mercy. But he cannot imagine any more. “Quite.” 

Her smile stays on her face, radiant despite Aemond’s cold and dismissive tone. There is a hidden, traitorous part of him that wishes to get to know her. She’s his wife, after all. Maybe it would be beneficial to them both if he made some effort to know the woman he’s supposed to love under the Gods’ doctrine. The woman he’s meant to bed. But he strikes that traitorous urge down and shoves it back into the recesses of his mind. He does not need to know a woman to perform his duty. If nothing else, Aegon is evidence of that fact. 

After another moment of stubborn silence Cecily leans away, calling for her cousin Flora. “I shall go speak to our guests, lord husband. Would you like to join me?”

“No,” he says, waving his hand before remembering she can’t see it and hurriedly lowering it, as though embarrassed. “Go.”

He finally sees a hint of her enthusiasm leeched by his dismissive words, and cannot help but be satisfied by it as she stands and offers him a curtsey before turning to Flora and making her way toward where his mother and father – barely conscious of his surroundings – sit. He scowls, thinking of how strongly Cecily will smell Viserys’ rotting body. 

He stiffens when another stench places itself beside him, the familiar scent of Arbour red that always seems to hang off his brother. He does not acknowledge him at first, keeping his eye on his own cup – Arbour gold, as is his own preference on the rare days he sullies himself with drink – in the hope that Aegon will see he is not interested in speaking to him. 

He has, as ever, no such luck.

“Brother,” says Aegon, words slightly slurred. “You will be most happy with me today.”

“Will I?” says Aemond, setting his cup down but still not looking at him.

“Indeed. I have convinced our mother to forgo the bedding ceremony.”

This gives Aemond pause, and finally convinces him to turn his gaze to Aegon. Aegon grins. 

“I knew you’d like that. You’ll still need to consummate, but I’ve done the kindness of letting you do it in private.”

“How did you manage that?”

He shrugs. “A few well placed words about the Seven and decency. Appealing to mother’s faith will get you far, you know. Do not say I’ve never done anything for you. But listen–” Aemond should have known he would want something out of this. “– I can see you do not like her. You will not wish to lay with her, and I understand. But I do not give a fuck if she’s blind, in fact–”

“Do not dare suggest what you have in mind, brother–”

“Come now! I am just being the caring big brother I have always been, Aemond. If you cannot complete the act and you wish to call me in, she’ll be none the wiser. Even if you can, I would still appreciate a turn.”

“Hold your tongue,” Aemond hisses, reaching out and grabbing Aegon by the front of his wine-stained shirt. “You dishonour my wife and your own. Does your debauchery never cease?”

“Gods, brother!” Aegon huffs, clumsily trying to smack Aemond’s hand away. “Twas only a suggestion!”

“Cecily is my wife, and if I hear you’ve touched her you will no longer have a cock to shove in whichever serving girl next takes your fancy.” His voice is low, dangerous. Aegon, though, only seems amused as he holds his hands up in surrender. 

“Forgive me, I only hoped to save you from a girl you’re so clearly repulsed by,” he says, as though his intentions had been purely selfless and full of care for his brother. He is so drunk he does not realise that Aemond has never been more serious. “By all means, have the girl. But do tell me if her cunt really smells of roses.”

Aemond releases him roughly, sending the man tumbling off his chair, and stands with the intent to find his wife. He’s thankful to see her still standing before the queen and king with Flora.

He makes his way over, making his presence known to Cecily with a clearing of his throat. 

“Your husband,” Flora murmurs to Cecily, and the two of them offer curtsies to the prince. 

Aemond watches them for a moment before turning to his mother. “Aegon tells me you have decided there will be no bedding ceremony.”

Alicent offers her son a smile and nods. “Yes, we both agreed it was an affront to the Seven. And I am certain there will be proof enough of your consummation come the morning, won’t there?”

“With any luck, your grace,” says Cecily. 

“Good,” says Aemond, not acknowledging Cecily. “Then I wish to retire with my lady wife now. It will serve as a good excuse for father to go rest as well.”

“Right,” says Alicent, moving to stand with the intent to announce their departure, no doubt. 

“No need for an announcement,” he says, gesturing for her to sit back down. “We will go quietly. Lady Cecily, come.”

He holds out his arm and Flora carefully guides Cecily to take it, bidding her cousin good night and good luck.

Aemond leads Cecily up to his chambers, hesitating at the door. She has not said a word the whole way. Is she afraid, as he is? Nervous? It would be only logical. Even without the worry of lords of the realm witnessing their coupling, it is daunting for Aemond. He cannot imagine the fear it would cause in someone who has not done it before. 

He opens the door, gently leading her inside by a hand on the small of her back. “I will help you find your way around until you learn it,” he tells her. 

“Thank you, my lord,” she says, fiddling again with her dress. “Do you know why we’ve been allowed to do this without spectators?”

“A kindness brokered by my brother,” says Aemond, closing the door and looking to her as she stands in the middle of the room, aimless. A sting of repulsion twists in his chest. It feels all too similar to self-loathing, though he cannot know why. “I’m sure it is all we will get in lieu of a wedding gift.”

“Ah, then I must make certain to thank him,” she says, reaching back to begin undoing the lacing of her gown.

“You should not trouble yourself with Aegon’s company,” he says firmly, looking away from her as though trying not to dishonour her in a state of undress. 

“Oh,” she murmurs, slipping off the dress so it pools around her ankles. She stands there in only her smallclothes. He glances up, catching sight of her as she slips her chemise from her shoulders and his breath catches in his throat. Her body, svelte but soft with a life of good food and comfort, is near bare before him. She smiles, evidently hoping he’s looking as she plays with her hands. “I hope I am pleasing to you. Will you help me to the bed?”

He watches her in silence for a moment, as though stunned by the sight of his wife almost naked. In a sense, he is. He had not expected Cecily to act quite so boldly. She is a confident woman and not demure as he is aware, but somehow he thought her nerves would get the better of her. Perhaps not being able to see his reactions helps.

Could she see, she would see a man stunned and frightened, and he finds himself thankful yet again for her blindness. He does not answer her but begins to slowly undress, first removing his gloves, then his boots, then he undoes the lacing of his doublet. As he does, he moves toward her. She perks, then stiffens, as though realising what those footsteps mean. 

He shrugs the doublet off, and reaches to take her hand. The touch of her bare skin against his, for the first time, burns hotter than dragonfire. 

He forces himself to lead her to the bed and watches as she sits down, shimmying up to lean against the pillows, hands settled in her lap as Aemond moves to sit down beside her. It feels wrong to be in a state of undress around a woman, even one who cannot see him. He hasn't allowed himself to be intimate with a woman since…

He pushes that thought from his mind. Hate Cecily as he does, she seems kind enough. Innocent, as he had once been. She will not laugh at him as those women did. 

(Gods, he hopes she is truly as kind as she makes out to be.)

Cecily shifts closer to him, gently feeling across the soft sheets for Aemond’s hand. She turns to face him, offering him a timid smile. “I am a maiden,” she tells him. “But I will try not to be boring for you.”

“You do not have to,” Aemond mumbles, watching her hand slide over his arm and onto his chest, then down. He feels his pulse quicken, but does not stop her. 

“I wish to,” she promises in a whisper. Her hand trails further down, to the waist of his trousers. 

Aemond clenches his jaw and reaches for her wrist as gently as he can manage, though he’s certain she feels the slight tremble in his grip. He moves her hand away, not meeting her eyes to avoid the look on her face– she must be mocking him. She must think him a fool, a boy, an invalid, just like she is. “Let us not make this more complicated than it ought to be.”

“But, I-”

“Lay back. I will do my best to be gentle.”

He finally looks up at her and what he sees is not a mocking sneer, but only confusion. Still, she obliges him and shifts to lay down on the bed, hands folded over her stomach. Aemond’s heart pangs with something he cannot hope to understand, but he ignores it. He undoes his pants, crawling over her and not wasting any further time. 

He goes as slow as he can manage to ease her into the feeling, but once he has broken her maidenhead he forces himself away from all sentimentality and care, moving instead with cold, hard duty. He does not let himself think about how she feels wrapped around his cock, soft and wet and warm and tight. He especially does not dare let himself look at her, does not dare see the expression of disappointment and upset that no doubt takes residence on her face. He cannot. 

After some time he comes with a grunt, taking a few steadying breaths to keep himself under control. To lose any part of his inhibitions now would be weakness. 

I am not weak, he thinks, not doing well to convince himself. Aemond Targaryen is not weak. 

He pulls out after a moment and rolls over to lay beside her. Cecily says nothing, but he sees her press her palms to her eyes and take a deep inhale. She’s trying not to cry. A better husband might comfort her, but Aemond cannot bring himself to do so when he cannot even comfort himself. So Aemond rolls over and listens to his wife try to keep her breathing even, feeling weaker than he has in many years.

part iii

[agentrouka-blog]

do you think the meereenese blot guy is right when he says that jon will come back darker and might not care about civilians deaths?

The Meereenese Blot Essays are excellent reads and I recommend them so much!

I don't think that what you describe is necessarily the conclusion/prediction presented in the final Jon essay. It's more of a very potential path that heavily depends on how Jon will react to several potential variables (the situation at the Wall, Melisandre's influence).

My personal take is that GRRM will probably not veer too far into that direction.

The essays give three factors that might influence a dark turn: 1) conditions at the Wall becoming catastrophic, 2) a turn toward prophecy, 3) Ghost's influence.

We can't yet know how 1) will turn out, but Jon has been investing in institutional structures outside his own person even if the wildlings have sworn their oaths to his person. They are manning castles together, training people together. The assassins do not represent a known large mutinous faction that Jon has been oppressing all this time. Like with Caesar, the "liberators" may soon discover their act to be unwelcome by the "masses". The destructive chaos may not be as huge as the essay anticipates. We're likely to see a mirror to Meereen in Dany's absence.

Regarding 3), Ghost specifically is a remarkably chill direwolf with a pronounced solitary streak and a gentleness with various humans. The human-eating exploits of Summer and Nymeria specifically mirror their human counterparts rather than negatively influencing them. The same went for Grey Wind. Ghost represents escapism rather than abuse of power but probably also a strong reminder of his wolf and human families.

Regarding 2), Jon already knows that Melisandre has magical and prophetic powers (Mance's glamor, the murdered rangers), so the mere fact of the correct prediction of his assassination attempt will not suddenly make him trust her. He already took steps based on trusting her and learned to question the reliability of her predictions/interpretations of her visions.

Jon's ethical troubles have always been tied to concepts of identity, rather than destiny. Always "Who am I, who do I want to be", rather than "this is a goal I must inevitably achieve, no matter the cost". So given his always ambivalent relationship with Melisandre and Stannis, I don't suddenly see him outsourcing his ethical grounding to a prophecy.

He'll more probably be torn between harmful personal desires (impulsive wrath, the peace of freedom as a wolf) and competing frames of identity (man of the Night's Watch, a Stark, a human) and through those pick a path forward that will likely culminate in leaving the Watch and fully engaging in Northern politics against the Boltons who threaten the Watch and the North and the wildlings combined.

None of those options tie him to Azor Ahai or to a sudden disregard for innocent human life. That one is (to me) likely to remain Stannis's story, all the way up to the senseless burning of Shireen, which will end the influence of that storyline in the North for the foreseeable future and release its focus over towards what the Essosi slaves see in Daenerys.

So that would be my opinion. 😊

[daenysthedreamer101]

Daughter of Steel and Bronze ~ HOTD

Ch 10 - Signs and Portents

HOTD x Targaryen!OC, Targaryen!OC x Harwin Strong

Warnings: description of an animal being killed.

Daena crushing on Harwin and vice versa 🙈

Corresponding episode: HOTD 1x3

HOTD masterlist

"In 114 AC, a great royal hunt was held in the Kingswood in honor of Prince Aegon's second name day. Lords and ladies from throughout the realm came together to celebrate. Lord Jason Lannister tried wooing Princess Rhaenyra but was coldly rejected by her.

The war in the Stepstones took a turn for the worse. The Velaryon fleet and its soldiers were losing and the Triarchy was on the brink of victory. Even with the help of dragons, the Westerosi had a hard time dealing with the Essosi pirates. In the end, Daemon Targaryen slew the Crabfeeder and brought peace to the Stepstones."

(Fire & Blood, Being a History of the Targaryen Kings of Westeros, by Archmaester Gyldayn)

~

114 AC, King's Landing

The Small Council chamber looked different this day. The table was covered in pastries, roast pigs, ribs, sweet cakes, fruits, wine, goblets, and plates. The room was filled with people. Why? Because today was Aegon's second name day and for that reason, a great hunt was organized in the Kingswood. 

Daena was standing and talking to her friends and handmaidens, Joy and Hanna. She sipped on her wine, gods knew she would need it if she was to survive the next three days. As a member of the Royal family, it would be suspicious if she didn't participate in the hunt. She would rather throw herself off the Wall into the frigid wastelands of the far North than spend one hour around the Hightowers but alas, here she was. 

"He has your hair, Your Grace." Some lord said and her uncle responded positively while they all cooed at the little boy. 

"He has your eyes, Your Grace." Some other lord said, kissing up to her fickle uncle. She rolled her eyes and sighed. 

"Is something the matter, Princess?" Joy asked with a knowing smirk. Daena tilted her head and gave her a look. The girl laughed and patted Daena on the shoulder. 

"Oh, come on Princess! The hunt will be so much fun!" 

Daena scoffed and chugged down the rest of her wine. She looked to her right and saw Ser Otto and his brother, Lord Hobert, conversing in hushed voices. "What are those snakes talking about, I wonder." She thought. 

"Come. Eat. Fortify yourselves for the journey." She heard her Uncle say. 

"Shall we eat something, Princess?" Hanna asked. 

"I've lost all appetite once I learned I had to attend this stupid event," Daena replied sharply, looking down at her empty goblet. 

"Now, now, Princess. It would be best to not let your...negative feelings toward Her Grace impact how you feel about the hunt. You love hunting!" Hanna replied in a hushed tone, careful not to attract attention. 

"Besides, you don't actually have to spend time with her. Once we arrive in the Kingswood you can go wherever you please." Joy added in her usual bright voice. 

Daena sighed. "You two are right. As always." The twins giggled victoriously. Daena smiled and shook her head. 

"Can someone tell me where in the Seven Hells Rhaenyra might be?" Her Uncle asked loudly, his voice laced with annoyance.  

Daena was with Rhaenyra in the morning, when they were getting ready. Quickly after getting her hair done, she left the room, saying she wanted to be alone. Daena respected her wishes and left her be. 

"Daena!" She heard her name being called and she turned only to see her uncle and the men around him looking at her. She gave her goblet to Joy and quickly walked over to the table. 

"Your Grace," She said politely with a bow of her head. 

"Where is Rhaenyra?" Her Uncle asked her in the same annoyed tone. 

"I...don't know, Your Grace. She was with me in the morning, but after getting ready she left my chambers saying she wanted to be alone. I respected her wish and left her be." Daena said truthfully, not wanting to annoy her uncle any further. Her uncle sighed. 

"Do you want me to go and look for her, Your Grace?" 

He shook his head. "No. No. You shouldn't worry about her. Eat, today is a joyous day. I'm sure you'll enjoy the hunt." He said in a softer tone and patted her on the shoulder. 

She smiled awkwardly and excused herself, not wanting to be in the presence of that Hightower snake any longer. 

~

"Well, isn't this splendid? The whole of our family off to celebration and adventure in the Kingswood." Uncle Viserys commented as they rode in the royal coach. 

Daena and Rhaenyra gave him unimpressed looks and abstained from commenting. Then, the coach hit a bump in the road and it shook a little bit. 

"Should you be traveling in such condition?" Nyra asked Alicent who looked uncomfortable. 

"The maester said that being out in nature would do me well." She responded, clutching at her large belly. 

"You will be with your own child sooner than late, and make me a proud grandsire." Uncle Viserys said to Rhaenyra. 

"It's not so bad. The days are long, but Aegon came quickly and without fuss." Alicent commented. 

An awkward silence fell over the coach. The maids sitting across Daena and Nyra gave each other looks. Nyra swallowed hard while Daena looked at Alicent with furrowed brows. "Gods, how dense is she?" 

To break the tension, Uncle Viserys said they should ride out with him today and join the chase. 

"I'd rather not. Boars squeal like children when they're being slaughtered. I find it discomforting." Nyra said. 

"It's a hunt, Rhaenyra." Uncle Viserys responded. "How would you like to participate?"

"I'm not sure why I must," Rhaenyra said. 

"Because you are my daughter, the Princess. And you have duties." Uncle stated. 

"As I am ceaselessly reminded," Nyra said under her breath.

"I'm sorry?" Said Uncle Viserys.

"As I am ceaselessly reminded!" Nyra repeated, louder. 

"You wouldn't need to be reminded if you ever attended to them." Uncle Viserys said, annoyed. 

"I'll go. I'll join the hunt." Daena spoke, trying to break the tension. 

"See, Rhaenyra, that is how a real Princess attends to her duties." Uncle Viserys remarked. Daena looked down at her boots, avoiding Nyra's gaze. This was going to be a long day. 

They finally arrived at the Kingswood. Uncle Viserys got out first, followed by Alicent and the maids in charge of Aegon. Daena could hear the people outside clapping and cheering. She looked at Nyra - she looked miserable. 

"Look. I know you don't wanna be here, neither do I. Just promise me you'll try and enjoy this day." Daena said to her cousin, trying to comfort her. 

Nyra looked at her and Daena could see so many emotions in her violet eyes. She took Nyra's hand and squeezed it. "I'll go first, hmm?" With that, she got up and looked out of the coach. 

Most people have scattered away. But not all. Standing next to the coach was House Strong - Lord Lyonel, Joy and Hanna, their other brother Larys, and...him. He walked over to the coach and offered his hand and she took it, carefully walking down the steps. 

"Thank you, Ser Harwin." She thanked him with a bright smile. 

"Princess." He greeted her, his voice deep and masculine. Gods, she loved his voice. His sister stole her attention. Joy almost knocked her over with how strongly she hugged her. 

She laughed and patted Joy on the back. "We saw each other only hours ago, Joy." 

"I know, but I missed you." 

Daena smiled at the brown-eyed girl and was about to leave with them, but then she remembered Rhaenyra. 

She called for Nyra who came out of the coach after a couple of seconds. Together, they walked to the royal tent.

~

The two princesses walked into the royal tent, Hanna and Joy closely behind them. Over the years, the four girls have created a close-knit relationship. Even though they were officially Daena's maids, the twins often helped Rhaenyra as well. 

The same went for Rhaenyra's maids - Elinda Massey was Nyra's youngest and gentlest of maids; she had light brown hair and beautiful green eyes. Daena would often call the young girl to her chambers for she loved spending time with the young lady. 

Daena looked around - the tent was filled to the brim with lords and ladies. There were many tables, chairs, curtains and settees. "Try and find a free table where we may sit," Daena whispered to Hanna. The girl nodded and the two sisters went to search for a free table. 

Nyra and Daena walked further into the tent, hand in hand. Nyra wore a masterfully embroidered riding coat made of grey leather with red accents and her hair was loose save for a small bun at the back.

Daena wore a dark, blood-red riding coat with ruffled shoulders, a high collar, and leather boots on her feet. Her hair was braided into a crown that sat beautifully on top of her head, freeing her oval face and her bright lilac eyes. She had small ruby studs on her ears. 

As they walked closer, they could hear women gossiping about the abduction of Lady Johanna Swann. 

"...It's an inhospitable place suited only for savages." 

"Perhaps the Princess...can give us some insight." Said Lady Ceira Lannister, looking at Daena. 

Now that she was called out, Daena had to respond. "I'm not sure how I could. I've never been to the Stepstones." She said, walking closer to the circle of ladies who all sat around Alicent. Daena noticed that Larys Strong was also there. 

"Your dear father is the great mind behind this war. Is he not?" Questioned Lady Lannister. 

"How would I know? I haven't spoken to my father in years." Daena replied curtly. 

"Since your cousin supplanted him as heir." Lady Ceira remarked, looking at Rhaenyra. 

"Daemon made his choices, Lady Ceira. Princess Rhaenyra was more suited to the role." Alicent spoke, ever the courtly Queen. 

"He's made a mess and the King must put an end to it. Send fleets and men and clear out the Triarchy for good." Commented Lady Redwyne. 

"...But the Crown is not at war," Nyra said confused.

"The Crown...is at war, Princess. Though your father refused to admit it, we've been dragged into it by your uncle and the Sea Snake." Lady Redwyne responded, petting her pug. 

"And how have you served the realm as of late, Lady Redwyne, by eating cake?" Nyra questioned while looking at her nails. 

Daena had to suppress a smirk from appearing on her face. Nyra glanced pointedly at Alicent and quickly walked away. Daena followed suit. 

~

Instead of going outside with Nyra, Daena found the twins and sat down with them. They chose the perfect table - her grandmother, Lady Rowena was seated there, and alongside her was a younger lady, around Daena's age. 

Daena smiled at her grandmother and kissed her hand. "Grandmother." She greeted. 

"My little dove, how good it is to see you. Sit." Lady Rowena greeted softly. Daena sat across from her grandmother and next to Hanna. 

She looked at the girl seated next to her grandmother - she wore a daisy-yellow gown with black accents cut in the Southern style and her mousy brown hair was held up by a hair net. She had little flower earrings on her ears and a small bee-shaped necklace. But her eyes were closed and she made no reaction to Daena's appearance. 

Daena looked at her grandmother who gestured that the girl couldn't see. Oh. She was blind. "Hello, my lady. I am Princess Daena. It's a pleasure to meet you." Daena introduced herself politely. 

The girl lifted her head in the direction of Daena's voice. "Princess, it's an honor to meet you. I am Patricia Beesbury." She introduced herself, her voice gentle and kind, like a spring breeze. 

Daena smiled even though the girl couldn't see. "Oh? Lord Beesbury serves on the Small Council."

Patricia chuckled. "Yes, my grandsire has been on the Council for decades. He must be doing something right, seeing as they kept him around for so long." She jested, making everyone around the table laugh. 

From the corner of her eye, Daena could see Rhaenyra storming in and walking up to her father. "Is that what I am to you? A prize to proffer about to the Great Houses?" She asked angrily. Daena turned in her seat to get a proper look - Uncle Viserys and Nyra argued quietly, anger visible on both of their faces. 

"...And I have tried often to discuss it with you, but you've refused me at every turn." Uncle Viserys said angrily, loud enough for people to turn their heads. 

"That is because I do not wish to get married!" Nyra responded, matching her father's anger. 

"Even I do not exit above tradition and duty, Rhaenyra!" His Grace yelled. 

Then Ser Otto of all people decided to step in and inform His Grace that the white hart had been sighted. Before Daena could stop her, Rhaenyra stormed out of the tent. 

As promised, Daena joined in the hunt. She rode alongside Joy and Harwin. Hanna stayed behind in the tent; hunting was always Joy's thing, she said. Hanna was more suited for courtly politics than her older sister. 

As they rode further into the Kingswood, Daena couldn't help but steal glances at the man slightly in front of her. She was behind just enough for him not to notice her constant gazing. She couldn't help herself; he was probably the most handsome man Daena had ever met. But he was also kind, funny, and surprisingly gentle-hearted.

She observed how his dark curls bounced slightly thanks to the motion of riding. She wondered how it would feel to run her fingers through his thick curls, how it would feel to wrap them around her fingers-

"Princess." A voice called her. It was Joy. "We've arrived at the spot." 

"Oh," Daena uttered and looked down, embarrassed that she was caught in her daydreaming. She cleared her throat and tried ignoring Joy's knowing looks. 

~

They returned to camp and once again, Daena sat with her grandmother, Lady Patricia, and the twins. Despite her best efforts, all she could think about was Ser Harwin; she thought about how he helped her off the coach, the tenor of his voice whenever he greeted her, and how she always had to look up to see his face properly. 

At that moment, she realized something that she'd been denying for years now - she fancied him. A lot. It seems other people realized that as well. 

"What's happening in that head of your, child? You've been awfully quiet ever since you returned from the woods." Her grandma commented. 

She blinked away her dazed appearance. "What? No, I'm fine, nanna, don't worry about me." 

Lady Rowena raised a brow and gave Daena a look that said she wasn't convinced. Joy looked like she wanted to implode.

"Oh, come on Princess! Just admit it! It's obvious!" Joy said not being able to contain herself anymore. 

"I've no idea what you're talking about," Daena said dismissively. 

"You know exactly what I am talking about." Joy retorted. 

"What seems to be the issue?" Lady Rowena asked.

"Nothing!" Daena said, trying to cease this conversation. 

"Daena fancies Harwin!"Joy blurted out before she could stop herself. 

"Joy!" Daena exclaimed in disbelief. Hanna slapped Joy's arm and condemned her for speaking out of line. Joy quickly apologized. 

"Oh, I see. Matters of the heart can be a touchy subject." Lady Rowena commented with a new understanding of the situation. 

Daena sank into her chair and hoped that the earth would open and swallow her alive. She loved Joy and her lively nature, but sometimes she was hard to control, especially her tongue. 

"I need some fresh air," Daena muttered and briskly walked out of the tent. 

~

Ser Harwin was outside, talking to Ser Rymun Mallister of Seaguard. Then, Princess Daena stormed out of the royal tent, looking very upset. She went over to the horses, quickly got atop her mare, and galloped out of the camp. 

He wondered what made her so upset to run off like that. He wanted to follow her and ask her; but he wasn't her sworn protector, it wouldn't be appropriate. Then out of nowhere, his sister Joy appeared, looking concerned. 

"Harwin, there you are." She said breathlessly. 

"Joy, what happened?"

"I made a mistake. I upset the Princess. Please go after her and bring her back to camp. Princess Rhaenyra also ran off. The last thing the King needs is to find out both of the Princesses are gone." She explained. 

"What did you do to upset her so much?" He questioned. 

"I...I spoke out of line. I said something that I shouldn't have. Just go and bring her back, please." She pleaded.

Harwin contemplated. If Princess Daena was anything like her father when she was angry, he wouldn't want to be in the way of her fury. On the other hand, he didn't want anything bad to happen to the Princess.

Over the years, he became fond of the princess - her soft voice whenever she greeted him, the way her face lit up every time her eyes fell upon him, the way she giggled when she found something funny, her sharp-tongued quips and of course, her otherworldly beauty.

"Fine. I'll go." He said and went to search for the missing princess.

~

Daena found herself at the edge of a large lake. She could see hoof prints in the earth; Rhaenyra must have been here, she thought. She had her mare tied to a tree while she took a walk alongside the lake. She already took 3 turns. Once she finished the third lap, she sat down at the edge of the lake and just stared into the water.

She shouldn't have stormed off like that. Sometimes her anger would get the best of her and she did and said things she regretted, and this was one of them. It's the fire in your blood, her father said to her years ago when she was a child. She was no longer a child. She was a woman grown and her outbursts wouldn't be tolerated any longer. 

What Joy said was correct - she did fancy Ser Harwin. Maybe it was more than that, she wasn't sure. She hated how right Joy was. She hated that Joy put it into words and said it out loud. She was scared of it; of the way her heart skipped a beat whenever he would look at her or whenever he spoke her name using that deep voice of his. She didn't know how to deal with any of it. So she ran away from it. 

"Gods, if he loves me, please give me a sign." She whispered, closing her eyes. 

~

He didn't know where he was going or how far into the woods the Princess wandered into. Luckily for him, after a while, he struck gold. He came upon a large lake in the middle of the forest. A mare was tied to a nearby tree - her mare.

Instead of yelling and scaring her, he decided to quietly follow the path. The sight that greeted him confused him - the princess was sitting at the edge of the lake, her back turned to him. She seemingly hasn't noticed his presence. 

"Princess." He called for her gently, careful not to startle her. After a second, she slowly turned her head. He was met with her bewildered face. 

"Ser Harwin?" She asked as if she'd seen a ghost. 

He got off his horse and walked over to her. He looked over her; she didn't seem hurt in any way, though her eyes did appear to be glossy. 

"Are you alright, Princess?" He asked, offering her a hand. She took it and he pulled her up. She gazed at him, her lilac eyes wide and full of emotion. Her lips were slightly parted as she took in a deep breath. 

"I'm fine." She answered barely above a whisper. 

"We must return to camp, Princess." He said softly. She didn't respond, just continued looking at him. 

"Princess?"

"I am so glad to see you." She said all of a sudden, her voice soft and breathy. He sucked in a breath at her words and the way her pupils widened when she said it. 

"I'm glad to see you too, Princess, but we must return to camp before they find the hart." He said and reluctantly pulled away from the warmth of her body. 

~

They slowly rode back to the camp in silence. She glanced at him as a thought swirled in her mind. She's been thinking about it for a while but never dared to ask. 

"Tell me something, Ser Harwin." She said and he turned his head to look at her. She had to stop herself from avoiding his gaze. 

"I've had this thought for a while, but I wanted to hear your opinion before asking His Grace." 

"My opinion on what, Princess?" 

"I wish to have a sworn protector. And, I was wondering if perhaps... you'd like to take that position?" 

Ser Harwin was quiet. Too quiet for her liking. Did she say something wrong? Did he not want to be her protector? Maybe she thought wrong. Maybe he didn't like her at all.

"You honor me, Princess. Are you certain you want me?"

She chuckled. Of course, she wanted him. "I've never been more certain of anything in my life." 

"Then, yes, I would."

"Well then, what are we waiting for?" She said, smiling at him, and started galloping toward the camp.

King Viserys and Lord Lyonel were in the royal tent, discussing Rhaenyra's future husband and who would be the best match for her. Then, his niece Daena appeared from nowhere. 

"Daena! Where were you?" His Grace asked. 

"Out in the woods." She answered matter-of-factly. 

"Alone?" 

"Well, yes. I had to clear my head." 

"You could've been killed!" He exclaimed. 

"Now, now, Uncle. Why are you being so pessimistic?" She said and the tone of her voice reminded Viserys of Daemon. She inherited her father's nonchalant demeanor.  

"I wanted to talk to you about something. If you have the time."

His Grace sighed. "Of course, my dear. What is it?"

She smirked and it once again reminded His Grace of his younger brother. Daena walked closer and sat down next to her uncle. 

"Seeing as I am of age now, I would like to have a sworn protector, who will, well, protect me." 

"That can be arranged." He Grace replied. 

"No, no, no. You don't have to arrange anything. I already know who I want." She said confidently. 

"Oh. Well, speak it. Who is it?" Her uncle asked. 

She looked to the side and smirked. She gestured for the person to step forward. "Ser Harwin." 

Ser Harwin walked closer and stood next to his father, Lord Lyonel. He bowed and greeted the King. 

"Well, Ser Harwin, what do you say? Would you take up the position my niece has offered?"

Ser Harwin glanced at his father, then at Daena. "If Your Grace allows it, I would be honored to guard the Princess."

His Grace nodded. "Of course, of course. I am certain you will do excellently, Ser."

Daena giggled and clapped her hands victoriously. She pecked the King on his cheek. "Thank you, thank you, Uncle. You're the best!"

~

In the early hours of the morning, Daena once again found herself in the woods. This time she wasn't alone. She was a part of the royal hunting group and it seems they have finally found a hart. It wasn't the white one Ser Otto has been talking about the whole time but it was a beautiful creature nonetheless. 

Daena stood next to Joy and watched from a distance as her uncle got off his horse - he was hungover, she realized; it didn't surprise her with how much wine he drank last night. 

"He may not be white, Your Grace. But he's a big lad." She heard Harwin say as he and two other men held the animal down with ropes. 

Uncle Viserys looked like he wanted to be anywhere else but here. He was never a violent man. He preferred throwing balls and tourneys, not killing; that was more of her father's specialty. He reluctantly took a spear from Jason Lannister and walked closer to the tied-up animal. 

He stabbed the animal in the neck but it still lived - it thrashed around and squealed in pain. His Grace stabbed again and again until the poor animal stopped moving. It was a sad sight. That was not a clean kill, the poor thing suffered until the end, Daena thought as everyone started to clap. She had to join in. 

"That was horrific. Poor thing." Joy whispered in her ear. Daena gave a nod of agreement but said nothing. 

~

Daena was standing next to Joy, Ser Harwin, and their brother Larys. She mostly ignored the Clubfoot; there was something about him that unnerved her. Harwin was skinning an animal leg while she and Joy talked. 

Then, something caught Harwin's attention as he looked up. Daena, Joy, and Larys followed suit. It was Rhaenyra. She was covered in blood and had a serious expression on her face. Daena smirked as all the other people either looked shocked or disgusted. 

"Gods, I leave her alone for a day and she comes back all bloody... Come on Joy, we have to find out what happened." Daena said with a smile and took Joy's hand as the two girls went after Rhaenyra. 

***

Ahhh, we see that over the years, Harwin and Daena have developed crushes on each other though they're still too reluctant to talk about it. Joy (just like her twin) is someone who's very observant and she notices things, and she likes to tease. However, she took it a bit too far in this chapter.

We are also introduced to Patricia Beesbury who will also become an ally to Daena/Rhaenyra in the future.

Thank you for reading! 💕💕💕

If you have any questions/thoughts feel free to comment. ☺

[emilykaldwen]

The Maiden and the Drowning Boy | Aegon x OC | Chapter Three

Rating: Explicit Ships: Aegon II Targaryen x Abrogail Strong (Lyonel Strong's Daughter), Jacaerys Velaryon x Helaena Targaryen

Summary: As the kingdom teeters on the edge of chaos, Alicent Hightower swaps the pieces on the board: Aegon will marry Abrogail Strong, Larys’ younger sister and heir to Harrenhal. Caught in the web of intrigue and political machinations, the pair must figure out where their loyalties lie, and what they mean to one another.

Tropes: Childhood Sweethearts/Friends to Lovers, Generational Trauma and Cycles of Abuse, It's All About the Character Development, Unreliable Narrators, Multi-POV, Canon Divergent, Bisexual Aegon II Targaryen, Book/Show Mash Up, Fix-It Of Sorts, Stopping the Cycle of Abuse before it gets us all killed, Team Neutral, fairy tale vibes meets victorian medievalism meets grrm

no tag list. please follow @emkald-fic and turn on post notifications for updates or subscribe on AO3

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Chapter One | Chapter Two

CHAPTER THREE - SORROW IN IDLE MIND

Aemond is the most put upon person in the entire history of Westeros. Aegon is the most navel gazing, half drunk prince to ever hold the title. Alyn Hull is just here for figs and a good time.

Traipsing through the narrow, winding alleyways of the Street of Silk was not how Aemond Targaryen wanted to spend this evening. Nay, this was not how he wanted to spend any evening. He mourned the cloak he wore, for he was certain that amidst the cloying scents of perfume and incense, and of the sour of human stink beneath, he’d never get the evidence out.

He wished for the quiet comforts of mother’s solar with a thick tome upon his lap as he read aloud to Mother and Helaena as they sewed. Better yet were the times when he could retreat to Helaena’s room and read only to her. She would card her fingers through his hair, brush and braid the long strands back as she always had. Other times, she’d lean into his side, soft and warm and smelling of the peppermint tea she always drank before bed. Her long curls would tickle against his neck where her head tucked perfectly, like it belonged there, on his shoulder. Aemond would adjust the warm blanket over their laps to ensure she was cozy. The book would span across them both and he would wrap an arm about her, fingers playing with her beautiful hair.

He’d read stories of the lands beyond. The tales of djinn promising wishes and sphinx spinning riddles from the furthest parts of the Essosi continent. The monstrous woman with half a snake body, and hair made of living vipers from the Basilisk Isles, would always draw gasps when he’d describe the garden of stone heroes the monster made. Helaena would gasp at all the appropriate places, look at him with wide eyes and would ask, “Do they make it out alive?” He’d brush a soft, reassuring kiss to the crown of her head and with a grin, tell her to listen.

They’d read into the night, and then when it was time for bed, Aemond would relish the sleepy kiss he’d receive, chaste and innocent, and still able to make him flush. “Goodnight, dear brother,” Helaena would murmur and he’d eagerly press a kiss to the warmth of her palm, over the lifeline, the blood they shared thrumming beneath.

Dear brother, she always said with such love and reassurance; such care and surety that he was her dearest brother, her favorite brother.

“Goodnight, my sweet Helaena,” he would tell her before floating his way back to his own bed.

Instead of all those pleasant options, he was left grimacing as a patron from the tavern they were passing expelled the contents of his stomach all over the cobblestones. His brother called his name with obvious exasperation.

“Uncivilized,” Aemond muttered, and narrowly avoided pitching forward into the mess when Aegon’s hand grabbed his shoulder and hauled him up between him and Alyn Hull, who clapped him on the back with a hearty laugh.

The smile that Aegon gave was not a jovial one, although the drinks he had at the previous tavern made him less sullen and more focused, more intent on forgetting; running as far as he could in another direction. Though not so unusual for Aegon, the lone man in his brown robe and bare feet on the corner beseeching men to return home to the loving embrace of their wives had turned Aegon’s frantic need to flee into something darker when his gaze turned inward.

Aemond saw nothing wrong with what the man said. After all, he wanted nothing more than to return to the warm fire and loving embrace of his wife.

“Gellys!” Aegon called and Aemond immediately tried to hide behind the elder boys at the woman in the doorway. “A room for us! Best Arbor you’ve got. Some Dornish as well.”

“Milord,” Gellys drawled with that familiar smile - the one burnt on the backs of his eyelids - knowing better than to address the one before her as Prince. “We’re happy to serve.” Eyes swept over the trio and Aemond tilted his head down enough that his hood made it more difficult to see, yet it did little. “And you’ve brought this sweet one again! How lovely. Bess, the usual for his Lordship.”

The brothel had changed little since Aegon had dragged him here for his nameday nearly two years ago. The tapestries which draped the sandstone walls were not so dissimilar to the ones his mother had moved into the gallery back in the Red Keep. It portrayed men and women in acts of carnality and some kind of sexual acrobatics. The acts portrayed were ones that Aemond is not so certain of, but he’d rather study the ones back at the castle and not amidst the ribald laughter that clashes with the music. Aemond was sure that beneath the flicker and shadow of the torchlight, they were littered with worn spots and moth-eaten edges.

Heleana would know the kind that dwelled amid the fabrics and he wondered if he might find a dead one to bring back to her. Something good could at least come from this ridiculous adventure.

Laughter and gentle music permeated the first floor, and Aemond was grateful to be here and not in the boisterous racket of the last tavern they’d been kicked out of.

A sandy-haired bard, pug nosed and red-faced, strummed his lute with a flourish. Along with his three minstrels behind him, also clad in various clashing frocks, the four held court along the far end of the room while women flitted between light and shadow to entertain the men. Aemond thought he also spied a few feminine patrons as well, among the settees and tables, surrounded by a variable spread of fruits, wines, meats, and cheeses.

Another yank on his shoulder by Aegon’s hand hauled him towards the staircase, and his stomach lurched with the unpleasant memories of the last time he was in this place.

It’s different this time, Aemond reminded himself while being jostled up the stairs, following his brother’s silver head, Hull bringing up the rear. He did not need to ‘wet his wick’ on this particular sojourn into The Pearl and Oyster; instead he was here to make sure that Aegon did not end up going too far off the drunken path. And as little as he paid Alyn any mind, Aemond knew that the elder boy would also ensure that Aegon did not end up dead in the river or with a knife between his ribs.

Why was this a concern now? Aegon had frolicked about Flea Bottom for years. Not even three moons ago, his brother was dragged back to the Holdfast with a split lip and double black eyes from his broken nose by two broad Gold Cloaks who’d pulled him spitting and scratching from a tavern brawl.

He gave his brother credit where it was due. Though Ser Criston taught him how to wield a blade, Aegon taught him how to throw a proper punch.

‘Blades are good for when you have them, but in a pinch, use everything you have’, Aegon had said as he whipped the apple he’d been eating with surprising accuracy straight at his forehead.

It had hit hard enough to momentarily daze him, but luckily no one was around to see.

Wariness kept Aemond from immediately divesting himself of the cloak when they entered the room on the third floor. A roaring hearth was set along the outside wall and the primary source of light for what Aemond assumed was some attempt at ambience. Swaths of dusty, crimson fabric wound through the rafters and draped down to give the illusion of some Dornish pleasure tent and not a private room of a brothel in King’s Landing. A thick rug, far too fine for an establishment like this, muffled their footsteps as they crossed the room. Woven strands of scarlet and cream, embellishments in gold etched a design that would not be too out of place in his sire’s room.

Past further drapes of fabric, Aemond could see an enormous bed in the corner. His stomach twisted uncomfortably with nerves that barely eased at the reassuring sight of his companions taking to the table by the hearth and no women bursting from behind the fabric like shrieking ghosts in the night.

When Aegon and Alyn weren’t looking, Aemond tugged aside a drape to confirm that there were none silent and hiding - assassins or whores or some secret, third option that was just as unwelcome, if undefined.

It wasn't long before a stream of women and girls arrived, bearing plates of simple fare to go with the bottles of wine bearing the marks of familiar orchards of the Arbor and the Dornish sun, and a bottle of what he was certain to be a golden vintage from the Jade Sea - the kind his sire ordered to be served only in the company of the most important foreign dignitaries.

There were young girls with downcast eyes and soft blonde curls, women with bold gazes and plump red lips, ones with Lyseni features and hair that glowed in the firelight - though nowhere as fair or pure as his Helaena. Brunettes with messy curls and giggles batted their eyes at him. A pair of raven haired twins with lilac eyes and hair shorn to their bared shoulders brought up the rear.

Alyn already claimed the twins before they even finished setting their plates of meats and fruits on the scarred wood, giggling as he pulled them in. Aegon’s half-sullen, half-hungry expression gave way to heavy-lidded eyes as a buxom brunette carded her fingers through his hair.

Aemond wondered if this was the best the brothel had to offer, for they were perhaps pretty at most, but none truly stood out. He skirted away from the curious hand of the Lyseni and narrowly avoided bumping into a little redhead swerving around him with a quiet, “Excuse me, m’lord.” Young, and pale, with straight hair, she cut a path between the other whores and set a platter of figs and dates before his brother.

The scrape of the platter against the wood drew Aegon’s eyes from watching the woman who was crooning to him up to the new arrival. His eyes opened slowly, a frown pinching at his face, and Aemond watched his brother’s hands flex against the edge of the trestle. In a fascinating display, Aegon lifted a hand to reach for a lock of that red hair, eyes glazed and face flushed deeper.

“Aye, this is one of our new girls. We thought she might be to your liking, m’lord.” A laugh shook from her, breasts jiggling close to Aegon’s head but his brother didn’t even turn to look. Instead, whatever spell overtook his brother shattered and the hand that was reaching out for the girl’s red hair smacked on the table.

“Out!” he roared at the assembled women. The redhead gave a yelp of fright and stumbled back, toppling over a chair as the brunette crooner came to get her up off the floor. It was difficult to tell what fed Aegon’s angry outburst more: the mess she left in her wake, or the mere presence of her. “Get the fuck out!”

Alyn looked stunned. The whores about them looked stunned. Aemond was stunned.

Aegon’s jaw clenched as he rose to his feet. His brother was not a large man, not like their grandfather who looked above all, but the fury on his brother’s face ignited a flame of unease in his gut. Out of the pair of them, Aegon was, strangely enough, not the one most prone to outburst especially without an obvious reason for it. “If I have to tell you again, there won’t be any money for you to share tonight. Get out!”

The room fell quiet as the door slammed shut behind the girls. Aemond slowly took off his cloak and looked at Alyn, who met his gaze with confusion and then something like dawning realization. Aegon ignored them both, pulling over one of the Dornish bottles to fill his goblet.

“For fuck’s sake, Aeg-”

“Don’t you start with me, Hull.” A pause and then Aegon reached to his right side, grabbing the chair and sliding it out. “Aemond, sit your pissy ass down and eat something. Mother’ll have me locked up should I bring you home in a cart faint from hunger.” He took a large swallow of his third cup of wine that night, garnet liquid dripping along his chin like blood and staining the old linen tunic and along his pale chest, revealed from where the laces were undone.

Alyn shifted in his chair, striking with the way his freckles stood out along his darker skin with the silver twists of his hair leaving his expression clear. Aemond met his gaze as he took the chair his brother offered. Alyn did not have purple eyes - his were a vivid jade color, but he looked far more Velaryon than his own nephews. Aemond reached a hand up to adjust his new eyepatch. He ran his thumb along the strap, where he could feel the embroidery in the leather that Helaena had worked so hard on for her dearest, favorite brother.

Aemond tried not to sigh. He would not get his goodnight kisses tonight.

A sharp kick hit his shin and Aemond gave a startled, “ow!” Indignant and annoyed, he focused back on Alyn who raised his brows with the clear look of what in the name of the Seven is going on with your brother?

What wasn’t going on with Aegon?

They both looked back at the man in question, who was tearing into a fig with his glowering expression and greedy fingers. Aemond’s stomach growled, and he grabbed one for himself before his brother could devour them all. He sniffed it first, unsure about trusting brothel food, but it smelled of warm honey. Biting into it, the taste of apple and strawberry burst on his tongue. Alyn was helping himself to one of the dried meats on another platter. It was a higher fare than Aemond had expected, but the relative cleanliness of the room belied the money that lined the pockets of the one who owned the place. At least Aegon hadn’t dragged them to something filthy and (obviously) flea ridden.

He recalled the first and only time his brother had brought him to a brothel. This very one. It was a different room, him alone with that Gellys woman who kept pestering him about the type of girls he liked, or if he’d ever touched himself. She’d brought in a Lyseni girl, young but still older than him. She had a sweet face, and for a moment he wondered if he could just pretend to get through the night.

Instead, she listened rather sweetly while he spoke of saving his sister from the unwanted betrothal with Aegon. His brother had not relished in the duty, but Aemond did. He had a dragon now, Vhagar, the largest and oldest of all of them. It was with his dragon, he explained to the Lyseni girl, that he had enough power to storm in and break up this farce of a betrothal, And they listened to him. Helaena was ever so grateful about it, charmed, and touched, and gave him a kiss on the cheek and called him her gallant knight. She didn’t even protest when he told her they would be married instead. Helaena had only hummed in her little agreeable way while mother tried to protest that they shouldn’t be too hasty. Aemond did not share that marrying Helaena, riding Vhagar, and having his mother acquiesce to his demands, might even mean that he would be who they wanted to make heir. Of course their father wouldn’t put Aegon on the throne over their eldest sister. But Aemond? Aemond rode his grandsire Baelon’s dragon, and he’d marry his sister, and he had started to outpaced Aegon in the training yard.

Aemond had proven them all wrong. They had laughed and gave him a pig, and he’d gotten Vhagar.

He was grateful Aegon was disinterested in throwing women at him this time, let alone in taking any for himself. He could at least sit here and eat decent finger foods and wait for his brother to either pass out from drinking or give up and head home.

“Did you get called into the tower as well today?” Aemond ventured in ill-disguised casualness, reaching for a piece of cheese this time. He didn’t meet Alyn’s curious gaze, for both of them were watching Aegon refill his goblet already.

A grunt was all the answer he supplied.

“What got you pulled into that old fucker’s room?”

Another grunt and a roll of his eyes. “Not blamed for once,” he muttered. “Just bullshit.”

How taciturn. Aemond shifted in his chair, and carefully offered, “You know, Abrogail got pulled into his office as well. He came to Helaena’s room himself to retrieve her.” Aegon’s flushed face reddened more, pink eyes narrowing over his goblet he held to his mouth but did not drink from.

Aemond pursed his lips and thought of the scene in the gardens earlier. Abrogail came back from their grandfather’s office far quieter than usual before so harshly snapping at his sweet Helaena and squashing one of her bugs. At the moment, Aemond had been rageful at the behavior, for his Helaena didn’t deserve that. But hours later, he had realized that, mayhaps, he’d been a little harsher than he ought to have been. He would not apologize, of course, but Helaena was always getting on him about his temper. It had been rather unusual for his cousin. He could not recall the last time she spoke so angrily that wasn’t caused by someone doing something reckless in the training yard - however that was far more mother hen than annoyed and snappy.

“Abrogail?” Alyn rolled her name around his mouth and drew it out in a tease. “And here I thought it was simply wine not getting your cock up. But Abrogail, hm? All of that yelling over some red hair?” A lazy shrug, dagger stabbing into a piece of meat before him. “Makes sense now.”

“I told you not to start,” Aegon warned once more before taking another mouthful of the Arbor red. His eyes were dark, a smirk slashing across his soft face. “Came to Helaena’s room himself, you say? Spend the night, little brother? Has our sweet sister finally let you beneath her skirts or did you creep in again even though Mother forbade it?”

Aemond felt his cheeks color, and he slapped his hand on the table. “Don’t talk about her like that.” A deep breath, the way his book from Bravos recommended. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Center. Stay within the moment. Aegon’s eyes were slicing through him, as if he could peel back the layers of skin and see what lay beneath. A gaze even more dangerous, given his brother’s dance into the land of inebriation, but Aemond simply continued. “Abby got upset with us. Her eyes were red. It looked like she’d been crying.”

His brother made a sound and took another swallow. Alyn caught his gaze again and pinned him there until Aemond gave a slight nod, confirming that this was what in seven hells was going on. Whatever had happened in their grandfather’s office, whatever had his cousin crying and Aegon ready to bite everyone’s head off like Helaena’s pet mantis.

“Both of you pulled into the old Tower’s office this morning? Maybe it’s less about those two-” Alyn waved a negligent hand towards Aemond. “And more about, say, you finally getting under your little Maiden Marchpane’s skirts?” A laugh and the bastard Velaryon snagged up the Arbor red and pulled the cork with his teeth and spat it out towards the fire. “Then you what? Left her before sunrise covered in-”

“Don’t you fucking talk about her like that!” Aegon lifted the plate of figs and flung it across the table, sending the fruit scattering and the plate clipping off of Alyn’s surprised shoulder to shatter against the hearthstones. Aemond’s single eye widened, and he pressed back in his chair even though the trajectory was nowhere near him. “I didn’t fucking touch her.” The hand that flung the plate still hung in the air, trembling as his brother loomed over the table. He lacked any sort of threatening implement but Alyn raised his eyebrows and cocked his head. “I didn’t lay a hand on her. I wouldn’t. I never do.” Defensive, as was Aegon’s nature. Defensive in the face of accusations that were true. Except for once, Aemond thought, phantom pain lancing through his face. Except for maybe now.

“Well, you mope about her enough. Fuck me, no wonder you got so worked up over the redhead. So what happened, hm? Did she accuse you of something? Did they say no more rides on the back of that dragon of yours?” A smirk at the double entendre, but he raised his hands in surrender before Aegon could throw something else.

Silvery hair, limp with sweat, fell into Aegon’s eyes as he shook his head. “No, nothing like that.” He raised his goblet for another drink and collapsed back in the chair, slouched and melancholy in the worst of ways. Aemond tried not to roll his eye again at the display of dramatics. “Worse.”

Aemond’s brow furrowed. “Worse?” he asked, confused. Dramatic, yes, but he also wanted to know what had happened.

A log in the grate popped and cracked from the heat as conversation fell silent. The brothel outside the door continued to bustle. There was the distant shriek and laughter of someone down the hall, but no sounds of violence. Aegon was staring into his drink as if it held all the answers he could ever need. Aemond supposed that wasn’t out of the realm of possibility. His brother had gone to drink before anything else for years now. This wouldn’t be any different.

“They brought us up to go over all the missives asking for her hand,” he finally said. Aemond strained to hear him and Alyn leaned forward in his curiosity. “Had an entire basket of scrolls wanting the heir of Harrenhal. Mother was there, and her dog, who said nothing regarding his sister.” Aegon made a face and shook his head. “I’m marrying Abrogail.”

That wasn’t what Aemond expected. “Is that why she looked like she was crying when she came back to the gardens-”

“Yes, yes, that’s exactly fucking why,” Aegon hissed through his teeth and pelted him with one of the figs scattered on the scarred tabletop. It bounced off Aemond’s chest and rolled across the table where Alyn snatched it up. “Told her to be fucking grateful, stop lying about - it doesn’t matter. Made her cry, and she best get used to it.”

“Then why the hell are you complaining about it?” Alyn asked with a shake of his head. “Aeg, you’ve panted after her for years, now here she is. You don’t have to marry your weird sister, you get to bed someone you actually like. Sounds as if for once, Tower’s done right by you. What are you so fucking upset about? That you weren’t the only choice? You’re a jealous prick, you know-”

“Done right by me?” Aegon raged, his hand holding the cup gesturing out and splashing arbor red up his wrist and across the floor. He hissed and shoved at his sleeve, where deep red scratches stood out against his pale wrist.

Alyn looked at him with an almost bored expression. “They’ve given you a cherry ripe wife-”

“No, you fucking cunt, they gave me the fucking Maiden!” Clay and wine smashed against the wall as he flung it at his friend’s head and missed this time. “The last uncorrupted, perfect thing left in my life.” A stabbing finger punctuated each point, and the resemblance to the angry, spitting rage their father rarely showed was never more pronounced. “The last one who doesn’t look at me like they wish I were someone, anyone else. They give her in all that innocent glory on a fucking gold platter-”

Alyn bit into a date. “And you made her cry.”

“And I made her fucking cry!” Aegon’s sharp bark of laughter held the familiar, manic edge and it rang in Aemond’s ears. Tears spilled down Aegon’s face amidst it. Sad. Pathetic. The self-loathing in his brother’s face made him feel sick and uncomfortable, and Aemond said nothing, couldn’t find anything to say and left it for Alyn to navigate for the time being. “I’ve never fucking touched her ‘cause I… I can’t ruin her. I won’t. Get her sick with whatever the fuck is wrong with me. No. No, and you know what’s worse?”

“The others-” Alyn began patiently, prising open the fig.

“The fucking others! Bastard had a whole bloody basket filled with little more than filth not worth to look upon her, wanting to shove their cocks in her till she breaks giving them their muddy fucking brats.”

“But you wouldn’t break her.”

“I wouldn’t! Not unless she asked me to, and I’d make it so good for her. But no, she’d burn me as soon as I touched her. Too unclean to fuck her, get her belly full of me.” Aegon groaned and collapsed into his chair, palm on his chest. “She’d burn me and I’d sing her praises. Burn my filthy damned soul just to touch her, Alyn.”

Aemond did his best not to sigh, warring feelings of relief and annoyance that Aegon’s focus was on the baseborn Velaryon across the table.

On the one hand, he didn’t mind that his brother was mostly leaving him alone. Aegon knew he was only here because of their mother’s insistence on Aemond being his brother’s keeper. While he’d rather be anywhere but here, Aegon wasn’t poking at him or trying to get much of a rise.

On the other, every time Alyn Hull opened his mouth, every time the two silver-haired miscreants shared a laugh over some inside joke, Aemond wanted to scream. They spoke with easy familiarity to annoyed tavern keepers, and every time Alyn showed how close he was to Aegon, it burned something in the pit of his stomach.

He was used to jealousy since the day he could understand his place among his siblings. He was used to the jealous feeling that he would not be Aegon, had grown used to the jealousy that Helaena had been born for Aegon and not him. It was only with the breaking of the betrothal that Aemond felt a cooling of his blood towards his brother. However, now in the face of his so-called friendship with the bastard, it reignited. Aemond still felt awkward speaking up or inserting himself into the conversation, and both of them included him to a minimal degree.

Yet, Alyn was waving a hand at Aegon’s dramatics, and while Aemond also felt annoyed at it, he knew there was more. Aegon was snappish, perpetually amused, arrogant in the way of dragonriders, and thus closer to being a god.

His brother was moody and glassy eyed, flinching whenever their mother raised her voice or moved too quickly with wild gesturing. He became wide eyed like a little child whenever Ser Criston praised him in the yard, preening beneath the encouragement. Whenever Abrogail laughed in that bright and honest way of hers at one of Aegon’s dumb jokes, Aegon looked like he’d sprouted his own pair of wings to hover above the ground. She always laughed at his jokes. Every stupid one. She always had an encouraging word for him, for all of them, but he saw the way Aegon’s shoulders would straighten, the pink on his cheeks ill disguised.

It had been like that for as long as he could remember. For as long as there was the jealousy that he was not the eldest, that Helaena was not born for him, that Aegon had a bond with a dragon so innate that no matter how much of a disappointment he was, it seemed to be the only thing truly good about him.

Aemond had thrown him into their father’s jaws, and though surprised, Aegon didn’t even flinch. Aegon had stood stoic in front of the fire and without hesitation, had spoken the truth to their father’s face, to everyone’s face.

Alyn Hull would never have Aegon stand before their gathered family and protect him, them, and their mother. Aegon would for Aemond, and so Aemond would do his best to help.

He had the most relationship experience out of everyone here. Him and Helaena were practically married already, regardless of mother’s insistence on finding him a Baratheon marriage. Confident in his unique qualification for such a moment, Aemond would rise to the task the way their grandsire did. A true Hand, when his brother needed one most.

“Did you mean to make her cry?” Aemond broke the silence that had descended with his carefully worded question, and Aegon’s pink eyes, glossy and red from drink and the tears that threatened, gazed incredulously back through the strands of his silver hair. “You can be an idiot and careless, but you’ve never been cruel to her.”

Aegon had been plenty cruel to him and Helaena, the trio of them rolling in the dirt or knocking over side tables with the bites they took out of one another. Abrogail was different; she may have grown up with them and shared blood, but she wasn’t their sibling, rather, an innocent bystander to the theatrics of his family.

Alyn looked as if he might try to catch his eye but Aemond did not grace him with a return look. Hull needed to learn his place, and be reminded that he was Aegon’s brother, and knew him best.

“Skoros mōris aōhys issa, valonqus?” Aegon’s tone was flat and sullen and did a poor job of masking his wariness. His shoulders shifted quickly straight to the way he held them when Mother would broach the subject of Aegon’s doing better and Aegon’s acting more princely and Aegon’s doing anything but being Aegon.

What is your point, little brother?

What is your end, little brother?

Fuck, Aemond thought, fingers tapping on the edge of the table. Aegon never used their mother tongue, and only did so in the most dire, dangerous moments. He’d have to tread lightly.

“Have you bothered to ask her?” Aemond tried a different approach. Surely, his brother couldn’t know her inner thoughts without asking and the obviousness of such a thing shouldn’t stoke his brother’s ire. He was never certain of Helaena’s mind until he asked, and they were twin flames who rode the eldest dragons. Two halves of a heart like those songs that she so enjoyed.

It was foolish of Aegon to think he knew Abrogail’s mind, but luckily, he was here to offer guidance.

Aegon pointedly ignored him, turning his glare to Alyn. The older boy chuckled, “What? He’s right.” Alyn muttered something but he couldn’t hear. It did not truly matter.

Aemond continued, emboldened by the agreement, “Only, when Helaena and I argue -”

Aegon let out a laugh, his usual nervous idiocy replaced with a cackle and still with that mad sounding edge. “When you and Helaena argue? You, Mother’s Holy Voice of Reason? Dreamy little Helaena and her kingdom of bugs? Arguing?”

Dreamy little Helaena had left a scar on Aegon’s forearm from when she’d bitten him so hard she drew blood when they were young, but Aegon’s memory had been dodgy of late. Even in his growing annoyance and the heated flush creeping over him, Aemond could forgive.

He could try to forgive. Later. When his patience wasn’t running out and he wasn’t grinding his teeth so hard they might break.

“That’s not -”

“Which riveting topics ignite such quarrels between you babes? Whether you obsess over your blade and books too often? If Helaena’s upset about her stupid bugs being in the wrong place? Whether she actually likes you over the attention she’s been giving that squire lately and how she giggles for him instead of you? Do not presume to know my dealings with my Maiden, valonqus. You wouldn’t know passion if it were riding your cock.” Aegon was rarely cruel, but he was good at it, and the smirk that twisted his features was just that. Cruel. “Seven knows our dreamy sister has no interest in riding you, or she probably would’ve done it already..”

It felt foolish that the first thing Aemond thought of was that no simple squire could ever be a better option than he, for he was a Targaryen and above the laws and expectations of the simple, common man. They were as close to gods as any could hope.

The second foolish thing burst from him as Vhagar burned inside, his fury and embarrassment pulled him to his feet to lean across the table and get into his pathetic brother’s face. Aegon no longer loomed over him, and was no longer as intimidating as he once was.

Aegon may have the perfect bond with his dragon, but Aemond had Vhagar.

There was nothing left to be jealous of his brother for.

“At least I know what love feels like,” Aemond snarled, his single eye locked on Aegon’s face and his teeth bared, every inch of him vibrating with the insult, the desire to curl his hands around his brother’s flushed neck barely suppressed. “At least I’m not too stupid to recognize it.”

The air in the room vanished in the wake of his outburst. The world held its breath and not even the logs popped. Not even baseborn Alyn with his japes and his commentary made a sound.

Aegon was still before him, eyes bright and sharp with a focus he’d never seen before except in the eyes of a dragon. The instinct to pull away was screaming at him but Aemond remained pinned in place. His jaw shut with a click, his eye widening when he finally registered what he’d said.

Oh yes, he’d fucked it up.

Aemond could feel Alyn’s gaze fixated on him but he didn’t move. He felt like if he moved, Aegon’s teeth would sink into his throat and rip it out. He couldn’t move as the fear and horror trickled ice through his veins, quenching that jealous, angry fire.

Aegon’s face had gone ashen; the horrid, blank look he got when Mother or Grandfather screamed at him came over him. His wisteria eyes continued to pin him. Aemond’s mouth grew dry as his brother’s ashen pallor turned pink, and then slowly red.

A muscle in his jaw ticked, and it was like Aegon was releasing him from a spell.

“Aegon,” Aemond rasped. “I didn’t-” He could speak but the abject regret and humiliation strangled him from being able to form any words.

Aegon’s face had turned a shade of purple and with a feral yell and the distant sound of a dragon’s scream coming from the open window, Aegon lunged across the table at him.

They went crashing ass over chair, food and goblets scattering and Aemond hitting the floor hard enough to knock the breath from him. A startled shout sounded somewhere, distantly, but it took everything in Aemond to focus before his brother’s fist connected squarely, solidly with his jaw. His face erupted in a million bursts of pain with a crack in his ear, yet Aemond’s fists reached up to push Aegon off, wordless yelling doing nothing to prevent his brother landing another blow.

Instinct drove Aemond now, Ser Criston’s training discarded in favor of the overwhelming voice that compelled him: get up or he’ll kill you. Get up or he’ll pummel you like Harwin Strong pummeled Ser Criston in the training yard until he was beyond bloody.

Even with his incandescent fury, Aegon was still closer to drunk than sober, and after spitting in his face, Aemond got his leg up and kneed his brother in the stomach, pushing him off and scrambling away so he was no longer pinned like one of Helaena’s favorite bugs to the display board.

Viscous blood spat from his mouth. “I take it back!” he yelled, shoving the chair in Aegon’s way while he scrambled to his feet.

With a roar, Aegon threw the chair and Aemond darted out of the way, the wood crashing against the stone wall. Alyn shouted Aegon’s name, another dragon call sounded over the city, and then Aemond felt Vhagar’s bond vibrate in his own chest, concern that was not his own clouding his mind.

Oh fuck.

“Aegon! Stop!” Aemond darted around the table to get it between them.

Alyn, the useless bastard, backpedaled out of the line of fire.

Aegon was on his heels and yanked him back by his long hair, landing another hit square on his nose. A sickening, dizzy feeling swept through Aemond at the stab of pain through his face, blood pouring from his nostrils.

Aegon reared back again.

Sunfyre was screaming across the city.

Aemond could not reach for the platter on the table to smack his brother with, and so he did the only other thing he could do: as Aegon went to throw his next punch, Aemond grabbed him by the shoulders and kneed him in the balls.

Just like how Helaena taught him.

[Chapter Four]

[diamondperfumes]

It is fallacious to say that Dany will burn Volantis and move on without looking back. Dany does not just learn the lesson that compromising with oppressors is impossible in Meereen. She also learns specific and concrete ways to build proto-democratic institutions of political, civil, legal, and social equality. Thus what she sets off in Volantis will not just be a military revolution against the slaveowing nobility spread across the continent. It will also be a religious, civil, and sociopolitical war to change the structures embedded in the political economy of each slaveowning polity. The people who revolt, as in the slaves, freedmen, and class traitors to the slaveowning nobility who ally with the slaves and freedmen, will have the examples Dany has left behind in Meereen to study and follow. Moreover, the most important benefit of Dany's revolution will be paving the way for the downtrodden of each polity to create their own institutions. Dany will not just be burning without looking back, she will be ensuring that the freedmen have the actual tools they need to build those institutions. The leaders of these respective regions are best positioned to govern themselves, and once Dany helps get rid of their thorniest enemies and give them the tools to effectuate lasting change, they will have to take over.

Is that not what Dany's detractors also want, to see the people rule themselves? It is kind of ironic that the same people who detest Dany for their speculation that she will not care what happens to Volantis, Meereen, and the rest of Essos after she leaves, also criticize her for ruling Meereen despite being non-Ghiscari. It is also funny because Bran will be King by the end, and that is not going to happen because of a democratic vote. In other words, because of Dany, there will be an actual opportunity for transition to representative governance and more political equality among the masses in Essosi states, but there won't be such a transition in Westeros, which will preserve feudal monarchy. Yet somehow Dany is criticized for that too? What politics do ASOIAF fans truly embrace, in the end? Do they want to see a ruler who empowers the people to lead themselves? If so, then why get angry at Dany intending for this to be the case?

And frankly, this is more than what any other character does in the text. Not only has no other character put pause on their war of conquest, glory, vengeance, or power, to save oppressed people and rebuild their nation for no other reason than to fight oppression (as opposed to Stannis, who learns of a very convenient prophecy that would put the Realm he wants to rule at risk, but who is still actively pursuing his war and finding the most beneficial alliances to serve his war), no other character has given the people tools to govern themselves, create their own economic and legal institutions, and disseminated the tools to fight for themselves. This is a fact, though I welcome disagreement with text evidence countering my point.

It is also not guaranteed that Dany will stay in Westeros. Those who want her to die in Westeros are contradicting themselves by claiming she's going to "abandon" Volantis and Meereen––if you want Dany to pursue change in Essos, why do you also want her to die in Westeros? Given the imagery and foreshadowing in Dany's arc relating to the Great Empire of the Dawn, it is highly likely that Dany returns––"to go forward you must go back"––and rebuilds the one empire in the entire lore that ever embraced true unity and peace, until the first Long Night.

[westeroslive]

𝘈𝘙𝘊  𝘐𝘐,  𝖶𝖠𝖱  𝖥𝖮𝖱  𝖳𝖧𝖤  𝖣𝖠𝖶𝖭  :  𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗽𝘁𝗲𝗿  𝘁𝘄𝗼.

the  hour  of  the  wolf  has  passed,  darkest  shades  of  the  night  stain  paler  as  the  city  still  sleeps  peacefully  beneath  luminous  moon  —  only  servants  and  common  folk  have  halted  slumber  for  duty.  the  torches  in  the  tower  of  the  hand  flicker  ever  so  often,  never  dimming  as  the  small  council  members  appear  to  be  the  only  nobles  still  awake  in  the  red  keep  ⸻  obsequiously  serving  her  majesty.  hour  upon  hour  filled  with  discussion  -  to  elect  their  new  leader,  the  next  hand  of  the  queen  ...  but  who  is  worthy  of  such  prestigious  position  ⸺  there  is  no  unanimity,  midnight  exists  of  strained  colloquy  and  biting  emphasis  on  covert  self  -  interest  disguised  as  wishes  of  the  realm's  greater  good.  it's  a  tale  as  old  as  time,  from  the  day  aegon  conquered  the  kingdoms  until  the  end  of  the  targaryen  dynasty  -  one  only  has  own  interests  at  heart.  strong  currents  pick  up  across  blackwater  bay,  mighty  winds  roar  harshly  above  the  waters  as  it  nears  the  city  ⸺  a  storm  in  spring  brings  unrest,  a  bad  omen  for  the  rest  of  the  year.  if  only  the  council  members  could  pick  up  the  faint  sounds  growing  louder  with  each  passing  minute,  their  voices  drowning  out  the  tempest.

reunion  between  siblings  -  unexpected  yet  with  bare  bones  of  recent  events  carried  over,  message  shared  changes  the  course  of  diplomacy  between  two  kingdoms.  letter  by  raven  revealed  new  development,  crimson  -  hued  flames  grazed  city  -  states  of  the  empire  as  damage  was  done  by  breath  of  dragon,  not  a  final  kiss  of  death  but  wounded  by  fearsome  attacks.  all  politeness  and  rigidity  in  statecraft  gone  as  the  emperor  only  has  one  goal:  sail  back  to  essos  and  unite  his  lands  during  these  dire  times  of  war,  he  must  go  back  to  pentoshi  soil  and  lead  the  empire  from  his  seat  in  imperial  castle  -  to  be  a  united  front  against  the  enemy.  dagareon  royals  leave  the  quarters  as  servants  are  dispatched  to  gather  all  essosi  nobility,  they  must  set  sail  quickly.  freshly  -  lit  fire  warms  the  room  with  sullen  orange  glow  as  dawn  slowly  paints  the  outside  sky  in  lighter  tints  of  deep  blue,  the  emperor  stands  tall  in  the  midst  of  his  people  -  dragon  mosaic  in  black  and  red  underneath  his  feet.  they  will  overcome  the  challenge  of  the  three  -  headed  dragon,  victory  shall  taste  bitter  iron.  in  all  his  glory,  he  commands  the  essosi  to  leave  the  soil  of  king's  landing  in  exchange  for  the  lands  of  their  upbringing.  it  becomes  a  clandestine  mission,  operation  incomplete  as  not  all  enter  the  ship  on  time  -  some  will  forcefully  stay  behind  in  the  capital.  in  safety  according  to  the  emperor's  brother  -  danger  has  not  reached  the  shores  of  westeros  and  even  if  they  would,  they  are  weaponed  against  the  worst.  a  dance  of  dragons  will  protect  their  own  nobility  and  leave  the  targaryens  vulnerable,  creating  a  power  vacuum  ⸺  for  the  best,  for  the  greater  good  of  the  empire.  heartfelt  letters  written  by  quick  brushstrokes  explain  the  path  chosen  as  they  are  scattered  amongst  the  quarters  of  the  essosi,  their  kin  leaving  on  the  ship  cloaked  in  the  dark  as  dawn  begins  to  break  -  like  fugitives  they  leave  and  tear  apart  diplomatic  relations.  too  caught  up  in  everything  to  notice  the  faint  lights  on  blackwater  bay  as  they  go  deeper  into  the  narrow  sea  facing  the  heavy  gusts  of  wind  in  the  storm.  the  rumble  of  thunder  is  deafening  as  it  intertwines  with  dragon  roars  ⸻  their  loved  ones  safer  in  king's  landing  than  the  damaged  lands  of  essos,  to  be  brought  back  when  all  turmoil  has  been  eradicated.

gusting  winds  have  picked  up  above  the  waters,  thunderous  claps  of  dragon  wings  flying  low  near  the  waves  -  limbs  with  sharp  claws  touching  traitorous  sea  ⸻  it  starts  all  over  again,  at  the  mouth  of  the  blackwater  rush  with  three  dragons,  as  they  conquer.  magic  is  strongest  with  dragons  around,  long  fruitful  summers  with  short  winters  lightly  dusted  by  snow.  it  is  not  any  different  now,  something  in  the  air  shifts  -  thickly  coated  with  prophecies  and  the  fiery  iron  taste  of  fire  and  blood.  loud  roars  fill  the  empyrean  atmosphere  -  familiar  cries  of  dragons  that  do  not  wake  commonfolk,  but  to  the  trained  ear  it  is  foreign  ⸺  not  the  dragons  housed  in  the  pit.  finally,  the  three  dragons  in  shades  of  black,  silver  and  copper  fly  over  the  city  -  wings  large  enough  to  bring  entire  city  in  darkness  of  the  night  yet  again.  loud  uproar  shocks  the  castle  dragons  that  remain  unclaimed  ⸺  apprehension  of  the  unknown  causes  their  panic  as  limbs  push  them  away  from  the  dragonpit  toward  the  dome,  breaking  free  as  they  leave  their  home.  wings  carry  them  across  the  skies  toward  safety  -  castamere  and  dragonstone  within  their  reach  if  they're  fast  enough.  king's  landing  knights,  gold  cloaks  of  the  east  barracks,  watch  the  escape  of  dragons  with  mouths  wide  open  -  rare  phenomenon  before  they  are  brought  back  into  reality.  the  word  spreads  across  the  city  that  all  must  stay  inside  -  enough  warning  of  their  fellow  lowborn  as  they  run  toward  the  nearest  outpost  of  the  red  keep. 

                                                                                 ⸻  ring  the  bell.

the  bond  between  a  dragon  and  their  rider  strong,  together  against  the  world  even  when  all  odds  are  not  in  their  favor  ⸺  no  one  to  stand  in  between,  till  death  do  them  part.  the  dragonriders  wake  up  drenched  in  sweat  as  they  sense  the  fear  instilled  in  their  dragon  —  it  was  clear  that  something  was  wrong.  but  what  was  it  ?  heart  pounding  fast,  the  blood  rushes  to  the  head  as  everything  around  becomes  dark  and  fuzzy  ⸺  too  many  sensations  all  at  once,  connection  with  dragon  overwhelming  as  the  world  spins  out  of  control.

the  city  begins  to  wake  up  under  pale  orange  and  grapefruit  tinted  heavens,  the  soft  epilogue  that  all  deserve  -  dreamscapes  painting  homes.  the  terror  of  the  nightfall,  haunted  by  the  heat  of  dragons,  reappears  in  the  heavens  as  three  dragons  enter  the  battle  scene.  gruesome  near  reincarnations  of  balerion  the  black  dread,  vhagar  and  meraxes  as  they  curse  king's  landing  into  absolute  darkness.  together  they  set  the  capital  ablaze  with  dragonflames  escaping  mouths,  not  as  powerful  as  the  fires  from  trueborn  grown  dragons  but  still  a  devastating  blow  ⸺  alleys  and  houses  burned  to  the  ground,  charred  to  coal.  their  sights  now  turned  to  red  keep  after  the  city  parallels  the  field  of  fire,  a  relic  from  aegon's  war  of  conquest  -  only  the  targaryen  reign  has  fallen  victim  now.

heat  of  licking  flames  scorches  the  royal  gardens  into  a  wasteland  of  ashes,  now  a  palace  of  bruised  flowers  -  unable  to  grow  in  tarnished  ground.  while  castle  dragons  have  escaped  dragonpit  before  it  becomes  their  mausoleum,  bonded  dragons  arrive  on  torched  down  territory  at  the  foot  of  the  red  keep.  dragons  are  fire  made  flesh  ⸻  immunity  against  fire  as  the  royal  dragons  wait  on  their  riders  -  cannot  be  separated  as  their  roaring  cries  warn  the  queen's  children  of  the  imminent  danger  they  are  in.

the  raging  inferno  is  strong  -  waft  of  smoke  fills  every  corner  of  the    castle,  every  breath  taken  corrupts  lungs  with  sulfur,  the  smell  intense  that  nobles  of  court  rouse  ⸻  realization  dawns  upon  them,  trapped  in  the  keep.  visibility  at  all  -  time  low,  last  vision  is  dark  soot  as  flesh  is  burning  with  the  heat.  it  is  impossible  to  escape  -  screams  of  anguish  and  tears  of  despair  only  weaken  bodies  before  they  succumb  to  eternal  sleep.  the  royal  palace  now  their  grave  if  only  they  knew  they  are  the  lucky  ones.  heat  becomes  stronger,  melting  the  structure  of  the  last  resting  place  of  many  -  large  blocks  of  pale  red  stone  fall  as  it  burns  down  to  rubble.  some  casualties  of  the  morning  are  caught  under  the  weight  of  the  walls,  suffocation  as  it  becomes  harder  to  respirate  -  gasping  for  air  as  they  try  to  survive,  but  deep  down  they  know,  their  cries  for  help  will  not  be  heard  ⸺  death  welcomes  them  as  the  sweltering  heat  of  dragonflames  no  longer  burns  skin.

the  outcries  of  the  three  serpentine  dragons  is  loud,  it  nearly  engulfs  the  connection  between  dragonrider  and  dragon.  however,  it  is  the  prince  commander  who  feels  the  pull  strongest,  he  gathers  his  siblings  as  he  analyzes  the  situation  ⸺  the  spare  of  the  spare  knows  what  must  be  done.  with  quick  words  and  a  natural  commandeering  presence,  the  youngest  princess, little viserra,  is  tasked  with  seeking  out  nobles  and  fly  them  out  to  dragonstone  toward  safety  while  prince  daeron  secures  the  red  keep  before  doing  the  same.  three  other  targaryen  royals,  with  dragons  made  for  the  task,  are  entrusted  with  defeating  the  foreign  reptiles  ⸺  and  so  prince  aelyx,  princess  daenaera,  and  prince  calyx  climb  into  their  saddle  and  prepare  for  war.  they  must  be  defeated  at  all  costs,  even  death  of  their  own.

imposing  and  fearsome,  prince  commander  makes  the  first  move  as  he  scares  the  holy  trinity  of  dragons  away  from  the  red  keep  ⸺  with  great  speed  tyraxes  challenges  them  toward  the  mouth  of  blackwater  rush,  far  away  from  the  commoners  and  the  fleeing  court  that  refuse  to  be  entombed  for  eternity  in  the  ashen  debris.  as  the  oldest  dragon  of  the  royal  children  scares  the  trio  away,  it  allows  zeokas,  calaellis  and  balerion  to  follow  and  each  claim  their  own  adversary.  it  becomes  a  battle  of  serpentine  creatures  -  a  dance  of  dragons  above  blackwater  bay  ⸺  a  century  old  tragedy,  as  they  burn  across  the  sky  with  claws  intertwined  and  biting  jaws  filled  with  sharp  teeth.  it  draws  the  danger  further  away  from  the  city  while  the  few  volantene  ships  watch  on  -  scions  of  old  blood  have  signed  the  death  warrant  of  the  targaryens,  all  is  well.  the  acrid  smoky  air  envelops  the  city,  bright  fires  near  the  gates  and  markets  while  the  royal  castle  is  swallowed  alive  by  the  dragonfire  coming  from  purgatory.  the  distressed  screams  of  westerosi  aristocracy  and  queen  rhaena's  welcomed  guests  will  be  the  key  melody  in  the  ballads  immortalizing  the  victory  of  volantis  and  the  true  valyrian  descendants.  the  perfect  backdrop  as  the  dragons  fight  high  in  the  skies  -  the  sunrise  matching  the  bloodshed  in  the  capital,  the  sea  of  flames  as  times  of  peace  are  officially  over.  it  is  with  grotesque  surprise  that  the  essosi  delegation  realizes  what  fate  they  narrowly  escaped  -  the  images  engraved  into  psyche.  but  bombshell  only  builds  on  as  they  realize  some  of  their  loved  ones  are  still  in  the  city  -  sleeping  peacefully  in  their  quarters,  their  deaths  imminent.  inconsolable  grief  finds  roots  on  the  ship  but  there  is  no  turning  back  ... 

                          one  can  only  go  forward  and  pray  to  their  gods.

through  speed  and  endurance,  tyraxes  and  iridessa  bring  most  nobles  to  safety  ⸺  a  reconnaissance  mission  happens  to  find  the  missing  aristocrats  but  a  mournful  aura  paints  the  castle  of  dragonstone  in  even  more  somber  colors,  unremovable  mist  of  gloom.  the  entirety  of  the  small  council  gathered  at  the  highest  floor  of  the  stone  drum  with  eyes  on  the  carved  map  of  westeros  -  dreams  of  revenge  ...  and  for  once  the  queen  shall  agree  without  help  of  her  precious  hand,  there  is  no  more  liege  hand.  but  how  does  one  rage  war  against  an  invisible  enemy  ⸺  what  is  a  noble  to  a  dragon.  nothing.  the  queensguard  protects  her  majesty  as  she  overlooks  the  battle  happening  over  blackway  bay  ⸺  three  of  her  blood  risking  their  life  -  she  may  lose  another  one,  grief  that  nearly  killed  her  last  time.  is  this  another  punishment  from  the  gods  ?

the crown  prince  seeks  out  frantically  for  the  dagareon  royals  in  the  hallways  of  his  own  keep  -  impulsive  decision  made  as  he  flies  away  from  the  sanctuary  that  is  dragonstone  to  the  tomb  of  king's  landing.  his  duty  forsaken  to  find  more  survivors  but  the  palace  is  nothing  more  than  a  pile  of  ashes  and  melted  stones  -  harrenhal  was  nothing  compared  to  this  ravage  -  the  targaryen  ancestral  castle  no  longer  stands  tall,  brought  to  the  ruins  by  dragons  similar  to  their  ancestors.  dragons  do  not  burn,  but  he  weeps  at  the  fallen  nobles  in  the  midst  of  the  cinders  ⸻  too  many  faces  he  recognizes.  purple  gaze  is  drawn  to  the  body  of  a  sibling  of  the  ruling  lord  stark  -  figure  bloodied  and  bruised,  halo  of  crimson  surrounding  head  as  fire  still  licks  at  the  stones  around.  he  pulls  the  noble  away  from  the  slowly  -  dimming  flames  and  continues  the  quest.  near  the  gardens  the  ground  is  scorched  and  the  sulfur  scent  is  strong,  another  member  of  a  great  house  fallen,  this  time  a  young  rose  plucked  away  from  highgarden  too  soon  ⸺  young  with  a  future  ahead.  the  path  ahead  is  dark  -  howls  of  highborn  in  pain  are  everywhere  and  nowhere  at  once,  it  never  stops  like  they  are  in  the  walls  and  beneath  his  feet.  the  dragons  roar  on  -  rumbling  and  loud  enough  to  shake  king's  landing  to  the  core  with  ground  moving  and  stones  falling  all  around.  he  sees  the  first  sword  of  braavos  in  the  distance,  pushing  against  heavy  structure  to  save  the  lives  -  and  yet  another  loud  cry  from  the  reptiles  causes  rocks  to  topple  down  on  top  of  him.  hard,  painful  and  heavy  enough  to  break  through  the  ground  straight  into  the  secret  tunnels  ⸻  the  sword  joins  the  ones  he  tried  to  save  in  death.  finally,  eyes  meet  the  dead  stare  of  the  imperial  crown  prince,  nighttime  robes  kissed  by  dragon  fire  with  valyrian  steel  sword  melted  to  his  hand.  foolishly  brave  to  fight  the  dragons  on  his  own,  a  noble  mission  that  became  his  death  as  flames  scorched  his  flesh  -  swallowing  him  alive  in  heat,  but  it  is  the  fall  from  great  height  that  was  his  end.  perhaps  the  enemy  did  not  win  when  it  came  to  prince  kusa,  the  final  blow  not  serpentine  blazes  but  a  freefall  from  the  highest  tower  with  broken  neck  and  eyes  wide  open.

the  confrontation  between  dragons  rages  on  above  the  waves  of  the  bay,  dragonlords  holding  onto  tightly  to  their  reins  as  they  steer  toward  fatal  clashes.  with  careful  glances,  prince  calyx  notices  the  barely  -  there  lights  on  the  water  as  he  redirects  balerion  toward  the  volantene  ships  watching  the  burning  city  ⸻  oh  how  they  go  up  in  flames  with  practiced  ease,  what  a  tragedy.  calaellis  and  princess  daenaera  go  after  the  smallest  dragon  of  the  enemy,  brutally  strong  jaw  biting  into  other's  neck  until  their  limbs  no  longer  move  ⸺  after  a  long  battle  the  copper  dragon  is  no  more,  crashing  into  the  water  to  have  a  sealord's  funeral.  the  shyest  royal  of  them  all,  the  prince  of  summerhall,  with  zeokas  made  for  combat,  fights  the  two  largest  dragons  at  once.  narrowly  avoiding  death  until  the  claws  of  the  silver  dragon  and  his  own  copper  intertwine  into  a  tango  ⸻  allowing  the  black  dread  to  escape.  a  slight  turn  of  his  head  to  find  the  black  monster  again  -  easily  found,  but  then  he  watches  him  dive.  with  horror,  prince  aelyx  watches  the  balerion  -  reincarnate  bite  maegor  in  half  as  his  brother,  prince  rhaeys,  sits  on  top  of  the  crimson  reptile.  and  like  magic,  onyx  serpent  disappears  into  thin  air  ⸻  like  he  never  existed  before,  gone  with  the  wind.  nonetheless,  there  was  an  operation  to  be  fulfilled,  he  was  not  going  to  abandon  the  ship  and  together  with  calyx  and  his  beloved  balerion  -  the  two  siblings  defeat  the  silver  moonlight  beast.

𝘈𝘙𝘊  𝘐𝘐,  𝖶𝖠𝖱  𝖥𝖮𝖱  𝖳𝖧𝖤  𝖣𝖠𝖶𝖭  :  𝗼𝘂𝘁 𝗼𝗳 𝗰𝗵𝗮𝗿𝗮𝗰𝘁𝗲𝗿.

and  with  this  final  part  of  the  plot  drop  we  conclude  our  time  in  king's  landing  and  move  toward  a  new  location  as  constructions  are  underway  in  the  capital.  as  soon  as  the  three  dragons  were  defeated,  court  was  allowed  to  go  back  home  -  since  then  three  months  have  passed,  making  it  currently  mid  to  late  summer.

the  ruling  lord  tyrell  has  opened  the  doors  of  highgarden  and  welcomes  court  inside  his  home  ⸺  some  may  wonder  if  it  is  a  bid  to  push  his  heir  as  hand  of  the  queen  since  the  spot  is  yet  to  be  filled.  her  majesty  has  accepted  this  arrangement  to  push  forward  the  betrothal  proceedings  between  her  second  -  born  and  the  lady  tyrell.

there  is  no  immediate  celebration  upon  the  arrival  of  the  guests,  so  threads  may  be  written  in  and  around  the  grounds  since  is  the  first  time  court  meets  again  after  three  months  filled  with  raven  -  sent  letters  and  mourning  of  the  deceased.

after  the  events  in  king's  landing,  with  the  fresh  realization  that  a  strong  alliance  with  the  dragonlords  is  of  utmost  importance,  the  emperor  has  decided  to  send  a  small  delegation  of  essosi  nobles  to  westeros  as  ambassadors  -  official  envoys  of  the  essosi  empire.  therefore,  all  existing  essosi  muses  will  be  diplomats  for  the  kingdom  while  the  open  positions  are  back  in  their  respective  lands  unless  they  are  deceased.

if  our  current  members  wish  to  drop  any  muses  and  pick  up  new  ones,  you  are  welcomed  to  create  a  ticket  in  the  server  for  easy  back  -  and  -  forths.

we will be posting the full list of the deceased as soon as we have most of the character drops confirmed in the server.

moreover,  members  have  until the next activity check  to  post  at  least  once  in  -  character  on  all  their  muses.  there  is  an  exception  for  members  on  hiatus,  for  those,  we  kindly  request  to  confirm  if  you  wish  to  stay  with  us  within  48  hours  and  with  which  muses.

there  is  a  lot  of  information  in  the  plot  drop,  so  please  ask  us  any  questions  you  may  have  in  the  server  or  on  the  main  -  we  will  happily  clarify  the  situation.

[horizon-verizon]

Calling Daenerys a “colonizer” or an “imperialist” is actually genuinely insane because both her ancestors and her personally are culturally Essosi, and Valyria was itself a big factor in why slavery exists in Essos at the scale it does at all. While Slavers Bay was part of Old Ghis thousands of years ago, it spent an equally sizable and influencial part of its history being part of Valyria, to the point where several of the masters we encountered spoke Valyrian as their first language. She’s not an outsider, and there is no cultural misunderstanding. Outside of the abhorrent practice of slavery, she is attempting to fit in culturally, right down to wearing a tokar.

Some people already explained how it’s not allegorically operation Iraqi freedom from an authorial standpoint, but also, just from a purely political standpoint, Slaver’s Bay is a massive imperialist force itself. It’s not an unstable developing region, and Daenerys is not an agent of a powerful foreign empire attempting to destabilize it for the enrichment and strengthening of that empire. She is a singular individual and former bridal slave being followed by a truly stateless group of former enslaved people from hundreds of different places who herself has literally nothing to gain by staying there. Any allegory to US intervention in the Global South fundamentally falls apart when you think about it for three seconds, because the Slaver’s Bay itself is more akin to the US than it is to any nation in the Global South. (Which is also why it has so many powerful allies in other slavery-practicing parts of Essos trying to get her gone.) It’s a powerful imperialist machine. It also falls apart because it requires to deliberately misunderstand why the US has the intervention policies it does (hint, it’s not actually to spread freedom and democracy. It’s to steal resources.) There are no resources Daenerys needs in Meereen, and she actually is interested in and working towards the longterm stability and improvement of the lives of the people there, which is why she didn’t just fuck off to Westeros (or at least Pentos until her dragons grew) after Astapor.

And her haters keep regurgitating the “she just killed 163 random slavers and didn’t find out who ackshulllyyyy was responsible” talking point, but contrary to the show, there was no poor sad little Hizdar’s daddy who was really really so sad about the 163 murdered enslaved children. Because that’s not how anything works. Killing 163 children to intimidate Daenerys was not something that a few bad eggs got together and did by themselves, it was an official act of the state. The state in Meereen is collectively run by the masters, and organizing that kind of deliberate, calculated horrific action, from planning to execution, is the collective responsibility of all of the officials in the state. Every single one of them was as guilty as the next and the only problem there was symbolically only killing 163 of them instead of the all of them.

just from a purely political standpoint, Slaver’s Bay is a massive imperialist force itself. It’s not an unstable developing region, and Daenerys is not an agent of a powerful foreign empire attempting to destabilize it for the enrichment and strengthening of that empire...Any allegory to US intervention in the Global South fundamentally falls apart when you think about it for three seconds, because the Slaver’s Bay itself is more akin to the US than it is to any nation in the Global South. (Which is also why it has so many powerful allies in other slavery-practicing parts of Essos trying to get her gone.) It’s a powerful imperialist machine. It also falls apart because it requires to deliberately misunderstand why the US has the intervention policies it does (hint, it’s not actually to spread freedom and democracy. It’s to steal resources.)

Absolutely, but they'll almost never admit to that (unless it's like that blonde whitey on TikTok who blase said she'd be fine with Southern states integrating slavery) part of U.S. liberalism is disguised conservatism bc white supremacy.

[eggtargaryenii]

EAST OF THE SUN | PART II

You were a disgrace to House Targaryen, the product of an impulsive wedding between a lost prince and some Essosi whore. You had little social capital within the Red Keep and few prospects for marriage, but that was alright. You were perfectly happy to stay out of the game of thrones, wed some politically relevant lord of Alicent Hightower’s choosing, and die in peaceful obscurity. Unfortunately for you, Prince Aemond had other designs for your future.

11.1k words, aemond x fem!reader x jacaerys. childhood friends to lovers (except it's cousins), political drama. chapter warnings for targaryen incest and themes of xenophobia/racism and misogyny. see part I for full story details. dividers from @/cafekitsune.

V. STRENGTH

Jacaerys was a child when he found out that he was a bastard and his mother was a whore.

Bastard. Whore. Even before he understood those words, he knew that he was different, somehow. That he was not enough. The lords and the ladies in the Red Keep always stared at him and Luke when they walked by, clinging to their mother’s skirts. They whispered whenever Ser Harwin Strong spent his afternoons with them in the training yard, putting wooden swords into their tiny little hands and teaching them how to swing. They covered their mouths to hide their laughter whenever his father, Ser Laenor Velaryon, took Jace out riding, steadying him on his pony. Pay them no mind, Jace, his father always said. They're only staring at you because you will someday be king.

So Jace closed his ears and focused only on Mother, Father, Ser Harwin, and Luke.

But the older he got, the harder it was to ignore the whispers. Bastard. Mongrel. Son of a whore. A wonder that his dragon egg even hatched. I've never seen any Velaryon who looked like that. He don't look like no Targaryen prince, methinks. Look at that hair. Look at those eyes. He can only be a bastard.

He can only be a Strong.

It wasn't all bad in his family, at least. Queen Alicent always looked at him with contempt, but his grandsire kept her from saying anything. Sometimes his uncle Aegon would bully him about it, but then he would leave Jace alone whenever he was teasing Aemond instead, so all Jace had to do was join him in making fun of the scrawny boy. And whenever Aegon and Aemond teamed up to point out Jace’s bastardy, you would stop both of them. You would gently scold Aemond and that would make him quiet, but with Aegon you would throw things instead. (Oops, you said once, after dropping the Seven-Pointed Star on Aegon’s foot. Sorry, my hand slipped. I'm afraid that book burns my heathen fingers.)

You always defended Jace like that.

Jace’s mother was a whore, and he later learned that yours was too. Maybe that's why you were so nice to Jace, even though the lords and ladies of the Red Keep scorned you worse than they ever did him. To Jace’s wonder though, you never seemed bothered by it.

It doesn't matter who our parents are, Jacaerys, you told him once. We’ve got dragons. We’re Targaryens. So long as we play our cards right, no one can ever touch us.

But what if my blood isn't enough? he would mumble. What if Vermax doesn't let me claim him? What if I cannot fly? He did not have silver hair and pale eyes, the features of a Valyrian king. Perhaps his bastardy and Andal blood made him less of a Targaryen. Could a mongrel tame a dragon? Could a bastard sit the throne?

Could a Strong ever take to the skies?

You smiled at him whenever he asked. You can do all of those things, Jace. I promise. I can't help you with most of them—but at the very least, I can help you learn to fly.

So he found himself on your dragon, seated behind you, his hands tight around your waist. I've never seen Wildfyre so happy to have someone ride him, you laughed. Not even me!

The dragon clicked and grumbled and turned his head to look at Jace, golden eyes approving. Then Wildfyre’s great wings started flapping, his roar thundering through the skies, and suddenly Jace found himself rising higher and higher, the muscles of the great creature rippling beneath him. King’s Landing was getting further away, shrinking; the clouds were getting closer, and Jace felt a chill as the cold damp of them soaked into his clothes. A freezing wind whipped through his hair, felt like ice to his bones, but he screamed and screamed with laughter, heart dancing as he clung to you.

Once you'd steered Wildfyre through the clouds, drifting into the warm twilight, you turned back and threw him a smile.

See? you yelled. Only a Targaryen could be so fearless on dragonback!

Fearless, you called him. He clung to this word: Fearless. I must be fearless. I must not fear my duty. I must not fear the succession. I must not fear the court.

In truth, though, Jace was afraid. He was afraid of being a bastard and he was afraid of losing the Throne, of ruining his mother’s claim. But you were so good at dispelling it all. You were so good at making him brave.

So when his family was sent to Dragonstone indefinitely, he nearly wanted to throw up—because it meant he could no longer see you. He sought you out soon after the decision was made, nearly running through all of Driftmark’s grounds before going to the Queen’s rooms, where he knew you would be.

He found you by Aemond’s bedside, talking to the injured child as he slept. Your fingers threaded through his silver hair; you whispered Valyrian into his ears, soothing and pretty and soft. Jace wished he could understand it, but his mother never spoke it around them. Ser Harwin, being an Andal, only knew the Common Tongue, and so that was the language that Jacaerys had inherited instead the language spoken by kings.

Jace begged to you in his lowly, mongrel tongue, ugly and stiff unlike the melody of Valyrian: “Come with us, please. I know you'll like Dragonstone. No one will stare at us there, no one will whisper. You'll be happier for it.”

He was not surprised when you said no. There was no way you would ever leave Aemond, but he asked anyway, again and again.

“I can't do this alone,” he kept saying. “I need your help. I don't know how to be strong like you. How to be fire and blood.”

You smiled at him. Stepped away from Aemond’s bedside, then took his hands in yours.

“You need not worry, Jace. Your mother will guide you.” Your fingers were so gentle on his. “You will grow into a fine prince, an heir befitting the Iron Throne. And when you do, you can come back to the Red Keep—and you can take me to Dragonstone then.”

Jace tried very hard not to cry. Ser Harwin had made a promise like this before he left his mother—that he would reunite with Jace someday, that he would stay by his side then. But he had never come back, had been taken by the fire at Harrenhal, and then Jace found himself mourning a man whom he was not allowed to grieve—because Jace was not allowed to be a bastard, and so Ser Harwin was not allowed to be his true father.

But he did grieve. He hated losing Ser Harwin, and he could not bear the thought of losing you too.

“You’re not lying?” Jace asked. “You're telling truth?”

He knew it was a childish thing to ask, but you seemed not to mind. You only threw your head back, laughed. “Yes, I'm telling truth! It is my dream to get away from the Red Keep someday, Jace.” You looked at him, almost amused. “I’m counting on you to save me from the Hightowers, my prince.”

And Jace could not help but think, as you departed for King’s Landing and he for Dragonstone, how much he longed to do that. How badly he wanted to take you away from the place that called you both the children of sin, from the people that called him a bastard and you a whore. He wished he could have sworn it as an oath, for then you would know how seriously he would take it.

I will become a fine prince someday, he vowed privately, watching your ship grow smaller and smaller, then finally as it was swallowed by the mist. I will become an heir befitting the throne. I am a Targaryen, made of fire and blood. I am a Targaryen, no matter who my father was.

He woke up everyday and repeated those words like a mantra. Tried not to think about the possibility of failure—tried not to wonder if the lords and ladies of the Realm would revolt should he ever sit upon the throne. If the throne itself would reject a bastard, its edges cutting into his mongrel flesh. It was a solace that he heard you every time he questioned himself: It doesn't matter who our parents are, Jace. Only a Targaryen could be so fearless in the sky. You have a dragon. You have a dragon. You have a dragon.

He had a dragon.

“I have you, Vermax,” he would murmur to the creature in his clumsy Valyrian, and Vermax would rumble at him, reassuring.

The years passed. You exchanged letters with Jace, kept in touch, but the distance felt like a yawning cavern between you still. The older he got, the less certain he became that you ever thought about him the way he thought about you. After all, he was a child when you left; you were nearly a woman grown. Thinking back on it, you had obviously treated him like a child too, holding his hands and trying to soothe his fears with empty words.

Grow up, Jace, he told himself, every time he received a raven and found your letter shorter than the last. Forget about it.

And he did, for a while. He focused on his studies, his swordplay, his duty to the Realm. Several name days passed, and suddenly he was a man grown. His mother was speaking to him of potential betrothals, of Starks and Tyrells and the noble daughters of other great houses. His stepfather was telling him to see the whores in Spicetown since he refused to disgrace any of the servants, and their silks and perfumes were dizzyingly fragrant as he bedded them. The serving maids of Dragonstone and all the distinguished ladies who visited laughed and smiled pretty around him, fawning over his status—for even if he was a mongrel bastard, he was still a Crown Prince.

Jace found himself utterly disinterested in all of it.

Curiously, in some of those moments, he would suddenly think about your letters—shorter and shorter, fewer and far between, but coming still. Hello, cousin. How fare your studies? I find myself the object of whispers once more; what an exciting life people think I must lead. Last month I was leading Ser Criston astray and making him break his oath of celibacy; this month I am carrying Prince Aemond’s child. I wonder whom I will seduce with my temptress ways next month. Perhaps it will be Septa Falyse, or the High Septon himself!

Jace could hear your laughter in your words: carefree, lighthearted, just as you always were when it came to your reputation. But it left a bitter taste in his mouth, thinking of all those rumours, of all those people speaking ill of you. Of knowing he could not return the favour of defending you as you once did him, now that the sea separated the two of you.

The whispers, though, were not something a Crown Prince should be worrying about, and you were not someone an Heir should be thinking about.

Grow up, Jace, he kept telling himself. Forget about it. Forget about it. Forget about it.

But when the day came that he finally had to return to the Red Keep—he could no longer forget.

As he boarded a ship to King’s Landing for the first time in years, he found himself remembering the words you once spoke to him when he was a child—the ones he clung to for years. They felt so fitting now that he’d learned of the Hightowers’ designs for you, of what the Hand intended to do.

You will be a fine prince someday, you'd said. Take me to Dragonstone then. Save me from the Hightowers, my prince. 

He would see you again, Jace thought. And if you so much as breathed the word, he would do everything that you asked of him all those years ago: steal you away from the Red Keep, protect you from the petty court that so often mistreated you, give you immunity from the family that spurned you both. Because now that he was a proper prince—a Targaryen, black hair be damned—that was something he could do.

He could save you from the Hightowers.

VI. JUDGEMENT, REVERSED

The coming of Princess Rhaenyra and her party was met without announcement, nor fanfare.

Were it not for Jacaerys’ letter to you, you would not have even known that they were going to be in King’s Landing. The tourney was coming up soon—less than a fortnight now—but their presence had nothing to do with it. Supposedly, Prince Daemon had some urgent business to discuss with the King and the rest of House Targaryen. Even Princess Rhaenys had joined them. What would be important enough for the Lady of Driftmark to leave her home was a mystery to you.

Until such matters made themselves clear, however, you would not worry over them. You were only thinking of meeting Jacaerys again. Although you'd received many messages from your first cousin over the years (his preferred raven now knew you well enough to squawk your name), letters were simply not the same as seeing one in person.

And of course it was impossible to see Jace in person. Queen Alicent became oddly bitter every time you requested leave to visit Dragonstone, and Wildfyre was always mysteriously chained up after such conversations. Aemond, as well, despised his half-siblings too much to meet with them during any of your visits to Spicetown, and he never let you go there yourself either.

You are a young woman, and it would be unsafe for you to venture out alone, Aemond always said. If you must go to Spicetown, I will accompany you and guard you from any… unsavoury characters that you may meet.

You had the sense that he was referring more to his nephews than any bandits or rapers, for it seemed not enough to him for guards from Dragonstone to be sent to accompany you.

You looked forward to seeing Jace again, unfettered by neither Aemond nor the Queen. You wondered what the awkward and insecure little prince was like nowadays, what sort of person he'd become. But as you had not heard any word of Rhaenyra’s arrival, you did not go to receive him at the gates—so you spent the day like you would any other. You broke your fast alone, neglected your needlework, neglected your prayers, and resentfully studied household stewardship. You loitered in the throne room, watching the Hand and the Queen settle various petitions. Today, it was mostly smallfolk worried about the price of food, a couple of petty land disputes between minor houses, and an interesting request from House Tyrell to legitimise a bastard—some knight who had served in the Dornish Marches. For some reason, Ser Criston kept looking at him with disdain.

Then, as a reward to yourself for your hard labour, you went down to the training yard in the late afternoon.

Your favourite pastime was watching Aemond practise his swordplay in the afternoons. You used to go for moral support, to encourage him whenever he was beaten—which he always was, because of his previously short and scrawny stature—but now it was always to encourage him whenever he clobbered his opponents, for he always did.

Ser Criston used to scold you for your attendance, saying that a young lady should busy herself with other activities. “You should be studying the Seven-Pointed Star right now, my lady,” he once said, probably at the behest of the Queen. “The violence of the training ground is not something that a woman should be witnessing so often in any case. Bloodshed is usually upsetting for the fairer sex.”

“I know not what you are talking about, Ser Criston,” you replied. You clapped Aemond’s shoulder then—drawing murmurs from onlookers, because hand-to-shoulder contact between cousins was scandalous if you were the one initiating it—and added, “there is nothing more important to me than witnessing Prince Aemond’s improvement on the battleground.”

Ser Criston gave you both questioning looks. “And why would it be so important to you, my lady?”

“Well,” you replied cheerfully, “Aemond and I have an agreement that if ever I am charged with murder, I will prove my innocence via trial by combat and he would be my champion.”

Ser Cole gave you an incredulous look. “Do you plan to commit murder, my lady?”

“No, Ser. It is merely a contingency in case someone should frame me for it. You never know what might happen with all the plotting and scheming in this Realm.”

You were actually speaking truth here: you and Aemond did come to this agreement soon after Prince Daemon Targaryen was taken to trial for the murder of his first wife, which he won by combat. You then went into an anxious spiral about what you should do if you hated your future husband and he was stupid enough to fall off a horse and die like Rhea Royce. Who would save you from a similar accusation?

Aemond immediately volunteered himself, perhaps too eagerly.

“You need not worry about me, Ser Cole,” you said upon seeing his perturbed face. “I wouldn't actually ever commit murder myself. You would know, since Aemond would prove my innocence.”

Aemond’s lip curled. “She would never be found guilty of any crime in the Realm with me as her champion,” he affirmed. “I think it is fair that the lady should be allowed to watch the sword representing her, is it not?”

Ser Criston could hardly deny a royal prince, so he merely sighed and picked up his morning star. “Whatever my prince wishes,” he relented. “Come—let’s give your lady a show.”

The knight had not since protested your presence on the training grounds. Ser Criston hardly even glanced at you today as you approached, weaving through the sparse crowd of knights, squires, and spectators while he and Aemond began their warmups. You were searching for a spot that would serve as the best view of their match, and it was pure accident that your gaze happened to land on an unfamiliar form among the hustle and bustle.

It was not the clothes that struck you—for they were plain, a nondescript black cloak over an equally dark tunic—but his face. Dark curls framing finely carved, fair features. An aquiline nose, a pair of delicate lips curled into an interested smile as he spoke to some companion you could not see. He looked like a Northman, possibly a Stark or an exceptionally beautiful Blackwood. You wondered if he was one of your potential suitors.

Naturally, you had to go introduce yourself. Purely to show your hospitality as a lady of House Targaryen, of course.

“Excuse me,” you said, in the clearest and prettiest voice you could manage. “Pardon me for the interruption, Ser, but I don't believe we’ve ever met.”

The stranger turned to you, his expression quizzical, but reflecting pleasant surprise. As soon as he laid eyes on you, his brows lifted—and a brief silence passed as you took in each other’s appearances.

You were only certain once you saw the three-headed dragon brooch on his cloak.

“Cousin?” the two of you asked simultaneously.

“Seven hells, Jace, I didn't recognise you at all!” you blurted out. You then glanced at his companion for the first time. Sure enough, it was his little brother—still young, but certainly not the small child you remember. “Luke! Gods, you've grown up too! I had no idea you’d arrived!”

Jacaerys made an irritated expression that was comically familiar despite his comically unfamiliar face. “The reception to our arrival was… subdued. Not etiquette to the standard that I would have expected of the Red Keep.”

“Ah. A folly of the Queen, I'm sure.” You smiled at them both. “Forget about her. I'll give you a proper welcome after this match—take you around the old haunts and whatnot. Wildfyre will want to say hi, too.”

“Match?” Jacaerys asked, but he was quickly answered by the violent clang of steel against steel.

Jace’s noble countenance dissipated as he moved into the crowd, beckoning Luke to follow. An excited grin spread across his face as he watched the two figures sparring furiously—as if he were again a child, spectating as Ser Harwin or the other knights of the Kingsguard fought with one another. Ser Criston and Prince Aemond were in another league altogether, of course—perhaps not in skill, but in savagery. They moved viciously and lethally, not bothering to hold back. The swing of Criston's morning star carried brutal weight, but Aemond was himself a lithe weapon, his body honed for the sole purpose of killing. You were unsurprised when his blade ended up pressed against Ser Criston’s throat.

“You'll be sure to win the tourney next week, my Prince,” said Ser Criston, but Aemond did not smile.

“I don't give a shit about tourneys,” he said, and you had to hold back a snort. Perhaps not when he was younger, but he absolutely did give a shit about tourneys nowadays. Not the pageantry or the petty social trappings, of course—but the reputation. Prince Aemond would be loath to seem craven or weak before the knights of the realm, and so he had no choice but to sign up for every tourney in King's Landing and crush every opponent he met.

Your amusement wore off when you noticed Jace and Luke beside you—how tense they'd gotten, how Luke was inching behind Jace. You could not blame them. Aemond had never forgiven Luke for taking his eye, no matter how many times you counselled him to lay it aside lest his rage drive him to madness. It chilled you how he spoke of Lucerys when reminded of it.

Even now, you discerned a subtle anger in Aemond’s body—tightly controlled, but there nevertheless—as he approached.

“Nephews,” he said, “have you come to train?”

Not even a greeting, you thought. Well, he does take after his mother in some ways.

“I'm afraid we’re only here to visit today,” Jace said, and you were surprised at the clean but sharp edge to his words. You did not know he could sound so much like a prince. “We must first attend to urgent matters before we’ll have any time for leisure.”

“I wasn't aware that the Crown Prince would consider swordplay a leisurely activity,” Aemond remarked. “Those princes who are truly of fire and blood, at the very least, do not.”

Fucking hell. Not even two minutes and the bastardy talk had already started. There was fury in Jacaerys’ eyes, and you stepped in before Aemond could fuel it.

“Jacaerys must be one of the few men of fire and blood who are also capable of diplomacy,” you said dryly, “as I know you are, Aemond, when you wish it.”

Aemond gave you a careful look, seeming more amused than anything else. “I wish it when my lady does.”

You smiled, placated. “I always like diplomacy. Hospitality, too. I'll be showing Jacaerys and Lucerys around before our family meets tonight—you are free to join if you wish.”

From the way the two brothers tensed, it was obvious that Aemond was absolutely not free to join. Your cousin had the grace to decline: “Thank you for the invitation, my lady, but I will give you the space to host them. You are better suited for it than me.” He glanced at Jacaerys, and said, “Do make sure you return her to me before it gets too late. I would worry about my cousin if she were out after curfew.”

Jace gave him a look that was as curious as yours.

“You need not worry. You know I would not let any harm come to our cousin.”

Aemond hummed, giving you a meaningful glance that you completely did not understand. “I’ll look for you at dinner.”

“I’ll be… sure to find you?” you replied with uncertainty, still reeling from his words. Return her to me. Aemond left before you could ask him his intent behind the phrase—because he always spoke with intent.

Jacaerys, himself, also seemed confused. “I didn't know my uncle was courting you,” he said, and you gave him a startled, bug-eyed look.

“He isn't,” you said quickly. “Queen Alicent would sooner die than let me besmirch the reputation and honour of her son.”

The elder prince frowned. “He was certainly acting like it, getting all possessive.”

“I suppose Aemond never liked it whenever we spent time with you,” Lucerys observed, looking somewhat anxious.

“He didn’t,” you now remembered. “Don't feel too bad, Luke. He was always like that even before he lost his eye to you.” Aemond loved to monopolise your time as a child and grew sullen whenever someone else had your attention—as if you were being wrongfully taken away from him and would never be returned. Sometimes you felt like a toy being fought over, tearing at the seams. “I guess he never grew out of it.”

“Childish of him,” Jace observed, watching his uncle’s back as he readied himself for another match. “Makes me inclined to take up all of your time tonight.”

You snorted. “That’s childish of you, too. Come on, let's go��at least catch up with me before you and your uncle maim each other.”

“I wouldn't do that to him,” Jace protested.

“I know. It was only a jest,” you reassured him. But an uneasy pit grew in your stomach as you thought of the way Aemond carried himself just now—how none of that lethal violence left his body as he approached his nephews.

It struck you then that you weren't so sure if the reverse was true.

VI. THE SUN

When you were alone with Jacaerys, his presence felt oddly familiar.

It was unusual, given that the prince was so different now. He had grown, and you had expected things to be strange and stiff between the two of you, but the conversation came easily once Luke departed. Jace’s laugh was the same as you remembered. His smile was the same. He rode on dragonback with you, his arms firm around your waist and his front pressed tightly against your back, and—

—that didn't feel the same, actually. You tried not to think about how he felt against you, how he had obviously grown lean and hard with muscle. It made your stomach flutter in a way that felt suspiciously similar to your reaction to first seeing Cregan Stark at court. You concentrated on the memory of the awkward, insecure boy with whom you had grown up, whom you could have never fathomed attraction to. Jace was the heir to the throne—you absolutely could not consider him desirable.

Also, if your stomach kept twisting like that, you would surely steer your dragon wrong and make all three of you crash.

Wildfyre, at least, did not see him any differently; he allowed Jace to ride him without complaint, and once you all landed outside the Kingswood, he kept clicking and prodding at your cousin with his massive snout, making the prince chuckle.

“I think he missed me,” he said.

“I’m not surprised. You were his favourite.” You glared at your dragon. “Traitor,” you groused in Valyrian, and Wildfyre snorted in response. You sighed. “Look at that attitude!”

“I think he's quite lovely,” Jacaerys said, voice smug. Wildfire crooned, as if in agreement, and snaked his long neck around Jace’s back, rubbing against him like a cat. You gave them both a dirty look.

“Sometimes I think you claimed him behind my back,” you complained, even though you could feel the bond between yourself and Wildfyre, warm and alive like a shared heartbeat. It had been present since the day you were born, as if it had formed while you were still in the womb. Still, there was a period of time before your official claim where Wildfyre adored Jace so much that you were convinced he would abandon you.

“You know that's not true. He's like a puppy around you.” Jace patted Wildfyre’s snout fondly, and the great old lizard chuffed like a dog. You saw the resemblance. “Vermax hatched in my cradle and he’s not nearly so affectionate with me.”

“Vermax is a sweetheart.”

“To you.” The corner of Jacaerys’ mouth lifted. “Remember how he nearly roasted Aegon the one time? And he never let Aemond near him, either.”

“Dragons are influenced by the feelings of their riders,” you pointed out dryly. “Vermax only detested them because you did.”

“Perhaps.” Jace scratched Wildfyre, fingers scraping against glimmering, emerald scales. The spoiled creature rumbled in a way that nearly sounded like a purr. “Are you saying that you’re as fond of me as Wildfyre is, then?”

Your mouth opened, then closed. You were glad that the two of you were alone and outside of the city. If anyone overheard you, or glimpsed your reaction, your reputation would have just been shattered forever. Worse yet, Jacaerys’ amused smile looked terribly handsome to you at that moment. You could not help but think, Well, I wouldn’t mind being pet by you either.

“I suppose your company is tolerable,” you said lamely.

Jace, of course, was not at all fooled. He turned to Wildfyre and said, in what you guessed was meant to be the Valyrian language, “We both know better, don't we?”

Wildfyre clicked in agreement, but your own reaction was not nearly so kind.

“My god, Jace,” you said, wincing. “Was that supposed to be Valyrian?”

He grimaced. “Was it that bad?”

“Terrible. What on earth is your mother teaching you? She's so fluent.”

“She never spoke Valyrian around us when we were children,” he explained, “so I never picked it up. Mostly, I learn from the maesters.”

“The maesters?” you repeated, appalled. You slipped into your native tongue, the timbre indignant: “No wonder you speak so poorly. You can't learn properly from maesters. You need to learn from someone who lives and breathes in the language!”

“There aren't many people in Westeros who do,” Jace replied in the Common Tongue. The two of you began to volley: Jacaerys in the language of Westeros, and you in the language of the old Freehold.

“Move back to the Red Keep. I'll teach you.”

“You’ve tried already. You were a poor tutor, remember?”

“You were a poor student.”

“That doesn’t change your own abilities. Could you even explain any basic grammar to me right now?”

“...you don't need to know grammar to talk.”

“No, but you need it to learn.”

“If I talk at you enough, you’ll pick it up eventually.” You gave him a mournful look, then tested his ear for your mother tongue: “However you do it, you should make more of an effort, Jace. You are a Targaryen, and a dragonlord besides. Valyrian is the language of your forefathers. How can you not know it?”

Jacaerys went quiet. “You know I have always tried,” he said, “to live up to my heritage as best as I can. I have neither Targaryen nor Velaryon features. People look at me and they see an Andal…”—he hesitated—“that is, they see a Strong. I have to show them I am more than that.”

Guilt gnawed at you. “Then I'll help you,” you said gently, in the Common Tongue this time. “Though truthfully, neither the language you speak nor the colour of your hair changes your blood.”

“Only you and Mother have ever thought so.” He looked away. “Apparently people used to think that my dragon egg wouldn't even hatch.”

You put a hand on his shoulder. “Yet it did, and every unbonded dragon responds to you. Vermax and Wildfyre can both attest to your claim and heritage.” You gave him a reassuring look. “Anyway, cheer up. You have more talent at the language than Aegon, silver hair be damned. His Valyrian is shit awful.”

Jace laughed. “Is it really so bad?”

“You’ll see during the meeting tonight. Aemond and I will force some Valyrian out of him—look forward to it.”

His smile faded. “I need to talk to you about that. The meeting, I mean.”

You made a face. “You know I don't want to speak of politics right now, Jacaerys. I'd rather talk about literally anything else, in fact.”

“It would be unwise to do so.”

“I live every day trying to be wise in matters of the court. Please let me be unrepentantly a fool for once.”

Jace gave you a sorry look. “Could I spend the rest of the day in leisure with you, I would. But it would be a disservice to you not to tell you, cousin. It is why I asked for time alone with you in the first place.”

“You wound me, Jace. I thought you asked it for you missed me.”

“Cousin.”

“Alright, alright. Let’s hear it.”

He breathed deeply. “There will be an announcement, one that involves you. In truth, the Hand said to keep the matter quiet until we could meet as a group, but I didn't think it was right, and neither did my mother. The Hightowers are trying to hide from you what Prince Daemon discovered.”

You gave him a curious look.

“What did he discover, then?”

VII. DEATH

The world felt so distant.

The Targaryens were seated around the Small Council table. King Viserys was absent, his mind addled with milk of poppy, so the Hand sat in his seat while his daughter stood at his side. As if in interrogation, you were at the other end of the table—the object of everyone’s scrutiny—clad in a neutral blue.

It was a powerplay. Jacaerys had predicted that the Hightowers would do it, and he tried to help you prepare. You had planned together what you should say, but the Stranger had stolen your words, your focus, your wits. Otto Hightower spoke and his voice sounded far away, as if your ears were stuffed with cotton. Your heavy breath and pounding heartbeat drowned out all other noise, thrumming alongside your bond with Wildfyre. It was singing with a pain to match your own, for the feelings of a dragon are always influenced by their rider—and he, too, had loved your father.

Otto kept speaking. You did not know why he was even here, really, nor Queen Alicent. Princess Rhaenys sat to your left without Lord Corlys, because this was a Targaryen matter—a grief shared only by those of fire and blood. The Hightowers were outsiders.

“...we must allow ourselves time to grieve your father,” the Hand said, “but the matter of his inheritance should be quickly settled.”

“What?” you asked, voice faint. This is what Jace said would happen, you thought. I should not be surprised.

But here you were—speechless, stupid.

The Princesses Rhaenys and Rhaenyra bristled. Prince Daemon, who sat on your right, openly scoffed. Helaena looked down, and even Aegon had the grace to keep his eyes on the table. He was feckless, a lecher, and he always quarrelled with you—but he was not cruel. He was not cut from the same cloth as his grandsire.

Even he disapproved.

Jacaerys was next to you, standing tall like a sentinel. Aemond watched from across the room, near his mother, in a shade of green so dull that it was nearly black—but green nevertheless.

Why was he not beside you instead?

“Please,” you managed to say, voice quiet. “I would like to hear the news from Prince Daemon himself.”

“As you should. This was not news that should have been delivered by a Hightower.” The Rogue Prince did not bother to hide his derision. “I was treating with the lords in Pentos, and they brought to my attention news of your father’s ship—the one that disappeared when he sailed for Lys. It came to light recently that pirates and sellswords accosted it. They sacked the ship, sank it. Then they took your father for ransom, but apparently he died not too long after from his wounds. Here is the proof.”

And sure enough, he laid before you what was unmistakably your father’s sword. It had been presented to him by the Lyseni while he was being hosted by the First Magister: a weapon from the former Valyrian colonies of Essos. Your mother had been by his side when he received it. In Westeros, she had been considered a common whore, but in Lys, she had been his beloved concubine—yes, a former bed slave, but respected nevertheless. She had thrived in the Lysene court.

You took the blade into your hands, unsheathed it halfway. It was pure Valyrian steel: ancient ore folded many times over, otherworldly hues rippling in daylight. Unlike the Valyrian swords kept by the Westerosi houses, this one had a name carved into it by a Qohori smith: Siglitanor. A word borrowed from Lysene Valyrian, a name chosen by your mother. The letters were as red as the Qartheen jewels encrusted into the guard, which was fashioned with Volantene elegance.

It was, through and through, a sword of Essosi antiquity.

For nearly ten years, you imagined that your father was somewhere in Lys, carrying this sword and speaking its language every morning, every night. Avy jorrāelan. Avy raqan. Ñuha ābrazȳrys. He would whisper these words into your mother’s ear in a courtyard somewhere, their plates filled with persimmons and mangoes and peace. He went to Lys and loved her too much to return. Yes, he abandoned you, but it was to take care of your mother, who deserved nothing less.

And now—now, this sunlit vision was turning to dust before you.

“Your Pentoshi friends—who told them this news?”

“Myrish sellswords who drank too much and bragged of their exploits. The Pentoshi thought I would like to know of their crimes against the Iron Throne and brought them before me. They're being held on Dragonstone now.” Daemon, for a moment, seemed reflective, and the sharp edge of his words softened slightly. “Your father was a skilled diplomat. It was his work that kept the Triarchy in line for so long. He died, and they soon after turned on us—and everyone else in the Narrow Sea. Pentos felt the loss of him as much as we did.”

“Yes, your father was quite the man,” the Hand agreed. “He was also skilled with his coin. He amassed great wealth in the Iron Bank, all profit from the Narrow Sea and the Free Cities. The Iron Bank was never forthcoming with information until now—they thought him alive and kept this from us—”

The coin is mine, Jacaerys coached you to say. It is my inheritance. I will go to Braavos myself and oversee the wealth. By the laws of the Realm, a daughter should inherit her father’s lands and wealth in the absence of a son.

“What happened to my mother?” you whispered instead, still staring at the sword. It shared its name with the mythical blade forged by Azor Ahai, tempered by the blood of his lover. Your mother had been a fervent follower of the Red Temple; when your father asked her to name the sword, she chose to honour her faith.

Would R’hllor really have let her die?

“Yes, your mother,” Lord Hightower said. “Your mother is gone, of course—the Iron Bank was willing to make the assumption after seeing the sword and the prisoners. And as such, yours is the only name that they have listed in ownership of your father’s coin—”

“We may speak of the Iron Bank in a moment,” you said bluntly, interrupting him. “What happened to my mother?”

Queen Alicent breathed in deeply. She clearly meant to chide you for your tone, but Prince Daemon answered before she could, himself unbothered.

“The sellswords mentioned that a woman was present,” Prince Daemon relayed. “She was saved by one of the guards, and the two of them were never caught. The sellswords did not chase them for ransom—they thought her a common whore.”

Then a whore is not such a bad thing to be, you wanted to laugh. Though you had never thought so anyway, because if your mother was a whore, then surely a whore was something to be cherished and pampered. You had always imagined her in a beautiful manse across the sea, hanging on your father’s arm. The two of them were supposed to be laughing in the sun as they drank Myrish wine and wondered how you were doing. They were supposed to be making plans to return to King’s Landing someday, to see you when they received news of your betrothal. You wrote to them everyday when you were a child, asking them what sort of man who they'd like to see you marry. You sealed the letters and asked the sailors passing through Blackwater Bay to take them to your parents in Lys. I don’t know where they are, you admitted to the seamen, but it can't be hard to find a Targaryen prince. The sailors would agree, pat your head, and give you a persimmon or a mango or an orange. You did this day after day after day—because surely your mother would reply to your letters eventually.

Surely, your mother would never forget you.

“Is she alive?” you asked.

“Perhaps. Likely not. The Narrow Sea was a brutal place before I conquered it.”

“But if she survived, where would she have gone?”

“The ship was overtaken at Bloodstone, so likely Tyrosh.”

“Not King’s Landing?”

Daemon gave you a long look. “I will warn you against any wishful thinking, girl.”

It wasn't a wish, you wanted to say. It was a promise. Your mother loved you. She wept when she was forced to leave. Someday I'll come back, she said in Lysene Valyrian, kissing you on the brow. When your grandsire is long dead, I will return and see you again—R’hllor will assure it. And until then, He will protect you.

Your father was supposed to love your mother enough to stay with her. Your mother was supposed to love you enough to someday return. But now your father was a skeleton on Bloodstone, and your mother was lost at sea.

And you—you were all alone.

“I grieve for your loss, my lady,” the Hand said. “But we must turn to the matter of the Iron Bank. That coin was grown from the wealth of the Crown, and as such, it belongs to the Crown.”

“You really have no shame,” Daemon sneered, but the Hand did not flinch.

“The animals of the Reach are plagued with sickness this year. Food has risen in price, and the smallfolk are suffering. Time is of the essence. If the Crown could find the coin to alleviate their burden…”

“The Crown has its own coffers,” you said quietly. The Hand paused, as if surprised by your resistance.

“The coffers are not limitless.”

“The coffers should be managed well enough for hard years.” Your eyes burned hot, but they still met Otto Hightower with hard steel. “If the Master of Coin has misstepped in his stewardship of the Crown’s wealth, I see no reason why I should pay for it.”

“It would not be your wealth being paid. It is wealth belonging to the Iron Throne. Everything from the coin in Braavos to the sword in your hands—”

You could not help it: a laugh escaped you. “You mean to take even my father’s sword from me?”

“It is an heirloom belonging to House Targaryen, so it should be inherited by a man of House Targaryen. Dark Sister was passed to Prince Daemon and not to Princess Rhaenys, was it not? A lady has no use for a sword.”

“An heirloom?” You could not help it—you rose to your feet and held up the blade, and it shone true in the light of the sun. Helaena and Luke visibly recoiled at the bare steel, while Jace watched you carefully. “You think this is one of the swords brought over before the Doom? You think a Mormont or a Stokeworth would have a sword like this? Tell me, Lord Hand—can you read the name engraved here?”

“There is no need, my lady, for you to lose your temper—”

“It says Siglitanor. Do you know what it means? Can you even pronounce it?”

“The name has no bearing on its owner. You are fixating on irrelevant matters, my lady. I caution you not to be so irrational. The issue at hand is the inheritance of the sword, not its name.”

“The name bears relevance to the inheritance, Lord Hand,” you ground out. “It means Lightbringer, named after the sword wielded by the Lord of Light, R’hllor.” Alicent shifted visibly at the mention of your heathen god, her brow knotting, and pressure mounted in your throat, your heart. “No Westerosi heirloom bears the name of this sword, nor its craftsmanship—you may check with the maesters yourself. The sword was a gift bestowed upon my father by the Gonfalioniere of Lys. In his absence, it belongs to my mother, and in her absence, it belongs to me.” You laughed. “You wish to gut me of everything my father left to us, with no respect to our history or our rights.”

“Your father misunderstood your rights, as do you. He represented the Iron Throne in every excursion to the Free Cities, so all wealth and treasures he acquired should be returned to the Iron Throne. And let me remind you, young lady—when the law is misunderstood or transgressed, there are consequences for the criminal.”

You stared at him, incredulous—for while the Hightowers have never loved you, they have never openly threatened you.

The words hung heavy in the air, oppressive to all. Aegon was practically withering; Jace, tenser than you'd ever seen. Aemond appeared unbothered, his expression precise in its neutrality, and this cut deeper than any words from Otto Hightower ever could.

No one dared speak until the Queen cleared her throat.

“Father,” Alicent interjected, watching you carefully. “I do not think it wise to act rashly. The lady is our kin, and we should allow her some grace. Perhaps this is best solved through a formal petition. Let us give the girl a chance to grieve, then present her case to the Throne—if she will even want to make one afterward.”

“And who will oversee the petition?” you asked carefully, trying to control your voice.

Alicent delicately replied, “I will see to it that you are given a fair trial.”

“A difficult task,” you parried, “given that the Hand has overseen most petitions in the past half year while the King has been abed with illness.”

The Hand finally showed his displeasure, his tone severe when he said, “The Queen, in her grace, is offering you a means to avoid punishment for the theft of Crown wealth. It would do you well to show some gratitude.”

You tried desperately to suppress the strangled noise in your throat. Someone touched your shoulder. You glanced to your side; Jacaerys was looking at you, his dark eyes as calm as stone and earth, and you breathed deeply, the knot in your chest untangling some.

“Of course,” you finally replied. “Thank you, my Queen, for giving me the chance to defend myself from these accusations. I shall accept your proposal.”

Alicent nodded. “We find ourselves right now in grief and high passions as we mourn the loss of your father, but we will need time and prudence as we settle this dilemma he left.”

You nearly laughed. Grief is your excuse? you wanted to spit, for it was clear to you—and likely most people in the room—what was going on.

Only Prince Daemon had the nerve to voice it.

“Do you need time to settle this dilemma,” he asked, “or time to regroup? Clearly, you thought the girl would yield to your demands today while you blindsided her with grief. It appears you now need a new strategy.”

The Queen’s jaw ticked. “Good-brother, you misunderstand me. Inheritance law is complex and often at odds with compassion. It would be cruel to wrest away her father’s belongings from her”—Alicent glanced at your sword—“but at the same time, the laws of the Realm must be respected.”

“Fuck the law,” Prince Daemon snapped. “My idiot cousin got himself killed at sea and his sword was acquired by force. It belonged to the sellswords for years before I acquired it by way of gift. It now belongs to me”—you gave him a watery, furious look, but it soon dissipated, replaced by surprise—“and it is now my decision that it should belong to my cousin’s daughter.”

You stared at him, uncomprehending. Mollified. Daemon spoke then in Pentoshi Valyrian—not so different from Lysene Valyrian, but inscrutable to speakers of the Dead Valyrian taught in Westeros: “Viserys and I grew up alongside your father. We knew him well. He would have wanted Lightbringer to go to you—not these vultures.”

Daemon switched back into the Common Tongue as he took his leave, pale eyes cold on Otto Hightower.

“I will see you again during my niece’s petition, Lord Hand.”

VIII. KING OF CUPS, REVERSED

You did not go to dinner that night.

After the meeting in the Small Council room, you could not wait to get away from your family—Targaryens, Velaryons, Hightowers, and all. You kept yourself poised as you excused yourself, but you broke into a run as soon as you were out of sight, your father’s sword grasped tightly in your hand.

You knew it was a childish thing to do, to run away to Blackwater Bay and cry your eyes out. It was nearly as childish as the way you had just spiralled and crashed and burned in front of the Hightowers in that room, living up to every judgement placed upon you. A heathen who worshipped the wrong kind of god. A perpetual foreigner. The pathetic daughter of a lost whore and a dead prince—someone of such little social consequence that the Hand saw you as easy prey for your coin.

In the back of your mind, there was a growing list of things you meant to do to fix it all. You needed to ask Prince Daemon what rhetoric Otto Hightower was likely to bring up during the petition, for no one had politically jousted with that man more than he. You needed to steal all the ledgers of your father’s ventures in the Free Cities before Tyland Lannister could think of having them confiscated. Perhaps you should even appeal to Princess Rhaenyra for her aid, since her husband was going to be supporting your petition.

Most importantly, you had to think of how to maintain your standing with Queen Alicent while fighting for your inheritance. It would not do to win your petition now only to be met later with harm.

It was a long, intimidating list. You knew you should go back to the Red Keep and attend to it. But now the sun was getting low, a violent blood orange in a dimming sky, and you were still weeping bitterly on the rocky shore. You thought of all the passing ships you'd watched from this spot, all the persimmons and mangoes you cradled in your hands as you hoped your letters would reach your parents. Telling yourself that one day your father would return, and your mother not too long after.

You didn't even know why you were still in this fucking castle if your parents would never come back.

Prince Aegon found you like this: wailing into your arms, cussing out the Seven, cussing out the Iron Throne, cussing out Otto Hightower, shivering because the light was low and now you were getting cold.

“Hello, dear cousin,” he greeted, slurring. He made his way toward you, stumbling through the rising tide before stepping onto the rock you were seated upon. He reeked so badly of Arbor wine that you stopped crying just to wrinkle your nose.

“Gods,” you said, revolted, as he sat down beside you and threw an arm around your shoulders. The last thing you needed was his grimy hands on your ass, which seemed to be their favourite spot to rest. “Get away from me, Aegon. I'm in no mood to humour you today.”

Aegon was so drunk that he yielded instantly when you pushed him: he yelped and tumbled onto his side, landing in a puddle of seawater and weeds. You would feel bad for him if you, too, weren't covered in the stuff—the tide had grown high and now your feet were soaked in it.

“I came to comfort you, and this is how you thank me?” Aegon whined.

“Since when have I ever wanted your comfort?”

“Since you are now in need of it,” Aegon said. He pointed at you. “You are in a miserable state.”

“Thank you for your astute observation, my prince.”

“Don't be so cold. Let me console you. Or if you won't let me console you, at least join me in my cups”—he held out a wineskin, which you suspected was nearly empty anyway—“and we can toast your father.”

“Keep my father’s name out of your fucking mouth,” you spat. “Is this your way of taunting me, Aegon? Rubbing salt in the wound that your grandsire and mother just left?”

“Gods, no. You think I wanted any of that to happen? You were not the only person who ran away as soon as that meeting ended, cousin.” Aegon uprighted himself, his knees knocking against yours. You did not push him away this time. “My grandsire—he’s not a very kind man, is he? And as for Mother… well, you know how she is. You are not the first person to be on the receiving end of either of their… machinations.”

“Are you trying to console me? Because it feels more like I’m meant to be consoling you.”

“I would not be opposed if you did,” he wheedled.

“Well, I'm not going to. Go away, Aegon.” You squinted at him. “How did you even know where to find me?”

“My dear brother was worried about your absence at dinner, and only grew more fretful when the Strong bastards said they had not seen you either. He was nearly in tears, sniffling pretty like the Maiden, when he begged me to help him find you.”

Despite yourself, you guffawed at the image that Aegon had just conjured up.

“He said you'd either be feeling sorry for yourself in the dragonpit or you'd be feeling sorry for yourself by Blackwater Bay. I did not feel like wading through dragon dung, so I chose to look here while Aemond combs the tunnels.”

“Well, you've found me. Now you may go.”

“How am I to leave such a sorrowful, beautiful maiden alone?”

“Quite easily, actually. I may throw you into the sea if you don't.”

“No matter—I will swim back to you.”

“With the state you're in? Ser, you will drown, and I will be accused of murder.”

Aegon shrugged, opening his wineskin and taking a deep draught. “That's all well and fine. I'll be free then of the Red Keep, and you would walk away scot-free. You would not be found guilty—simply request a trial by combat, and my brother would be your champion. He will surely slay any foe who challenges you.”

You gave him a curious look. “Aemond told you of our private joke?”

“Err, no? I just think it’s quite obvious the man would kill for you.” Aegon gave you a confused look. “My brother makes jokes?”

“Yes,” you replied, but then you thought more about it. “No. It’s more like I make japes, and he smiles stiffly, and at times he humours me.”

“Ah, that sounds more like him.” Aegon took another swig of wine. “He’s always been a mirthless lad. I've no doubt you will be solely responsible for any joy in your union when it is formalised. Speaking of which, why has my mother not yet announced a wedding feast for the two of you? Surely she cannot mean to let you give birth to a bastard. She may not love you, but she would not disgrace you either.”

You put your face into your hands. “I cannot do this today, Aegon. Leave me. You may report back to your brother and let him know that I'm feeling sorry for myself out here.”

“No, my lady, I told you—I cannot simply leave.”

You gritted your teeth. “Why not?”

Aegon flailed wildly, wine swishing in his hand. “What if you walk into the sea while I'm gone? I would never recover from it. No, cousin, I will keep you safe until my brother emerges from the dung pit.”

“How chivalrous of you. I will not be drowning myself any time soon, though—I must first face your grandsire in that petition.” You quieted at the thought. Aegon’s buffoonery had distracted you for a fleeting moment, but now you were thinking once more of all the dread and the grief and the fury. “Seven hells. Give me that.”

Aegon smiled at you as you snatched the wineskin from him.

“See, my lady? There is nothing that a drink cannot fix.”

You snorted. “Will it fix this inheritance business for me?”

“I mean for it to fix mine.” Aegon began to pick the seaweed out from his breeches. “Perhaps if I drink myself blind often enough, my mother will disinherit me. Then Rhaenyra and her bastards can sit themselves on that blasted chair and I'll be able to live in peace.”

You were so wrung out that, for once, you could not find it in yourself to dance around the topic of high treason. “The Hightowers will never let you get away from the Iron Throne,” you said plainly. “They’ll never be secure unless you are suffering in that chair. Or your brother, if I should first drown you.”

“Please, cousin. Don't make me beg.”

A laugh escaped you despite yourself. Aegon did not bother to hold back his own amusement, giggling openly.

“You know,” Aegon said, after his chuckles died down, “it may not be an option for me, but you could do it.”

You raised a brow. “What? Throw myself into the sea?”

“No, no! No drowning on my watch!” Aegon threw a piece of seaweed at you in reprimand, which you dodged. “I mean to say—you can run. Fly away on dragonback. Go to Braavos and get all your coin. Exile yourself in Lys and spend the rest of your life in decadence. God knows”—he groaned, sounding wistful—“it is what I would do.”

You considered his words. You had always stayed here for your father, and for your lack of coin and supporters. But your father was now dead, and you had so much coin that you had no need for supporters. “I suppose I could.”

“You'd need to go now,” Aegon said. “I would not tell a soul. Not even my brother.”

“Why help me?” you asked him, suspicious. The two of you had never been all that friendly. Close, perhaps, in the way that non-stop quarrelling would make two siblings close—but not friendly.

Aegon shrugged, as if unsure himself.

“Perhaps the day will come when I will wish to go to Lys and enjoy all the beautiful women there, far from the throne,” he slurred, “and when I do, I shall call on my dearest cousin to host me.”

“Surely, brother, you would not disgrace your sister-wife like that,” a third voice interjected. You and Aegon nearly jumped, seawater splashing around your feet. When you turned around, you saw Aemond—smelling strongly of brimstone and smoke, but not dung, you were glad to notice. He did not seem nearly so happy, giving you a long, severe look. “You were not at dinner.”

It all came back, then—the green tunic, the place next to his mother, his unreadable expression as he watched your humiliation in that council room. The memory robbed you of all your mirth.

“My apologies, Prince Aemond,” you said bitterly. “I lost my appetite when I learned of my father’s death and your grandsire’s machinations to steal his wealth.”

Aemond did not reply immediately. Aegon loudly cleared his throat, then somehow got onto his feet. He swayed from the wine and stumbled in the darkness of nightfall, but managed to walk away nevertheless.

“Well, now that you have each other’s company,” he announced, “I shall take my leave. Take care not to let our cousin walk into the sea, brother. It would break my heart.”

“You tried to walk into the sea?” Aemond asked sharply, and you sighed, tired.

“No, Aemond. It was only a jape. A bad one.”

“Hm. My brother does have a poor sense of humour.”

Aemond offered you a hand, and you studied it warily. When you did not take it, he finally said, “I did not know what my mother and grandsire planned to do in that meeting. The news of your father’s death was as much of a surprise to me as it was to you.” A pause. “Though I would wager you had warning and counsel from the blacks.”

“Jace warned me because he cares about me. I did not receive help from Rhaenyra's faction—do you really think I would care to involve myself in petty spats over the throne?”

Aemond hummed. “I know my nephew has great love for you, but it was not him to whom I was referring.”

A blinding, hot flash of anger rendered you speechless for a moment—how dare Aemond drag succession politics into this? But the rage quickly passed, giving way to clarity. For it must have been a great sum that your father had in the Iron Bank, if Otto Hightower desired it. And if it was great enough for him to seek, then it was also great enough for Princess Rhaenyra to do the same.

Aemond watched as you pondered this, your eyes dropping to your soaking, seaweed-ridden feet.

“Fine. You're right. But why didn't you come to my side once you realised what was happening?” you asked quietly. “During that meeting, I mean.”

“It would not have helped you.”

Yes, it would have, you wanted to cry, I'd have felt better for it. But Aemond was too smart and too serious to entertain such childish notions: you knew he was speaking in purely strategic terms.

“No,” you admitted, “but it would not have hurt, either.”

“Alicent cares greatly about the appearance of unity among our family. Were I to break it, she would cease to trust me, and it would be that much harder for me to help you.”

“And how would you help me?”

“What would you want to be helped with?”

You looked up at him balefully. The money, the inheritance laws, the petition—there was no way that Aemond could do anything about any of it, not without alienating his mother. You had half a mind to ask him to throw you into the sea after all, but based on his earlier reaction, he would likely lock you up in your room if you made such a jape.

With nothing else in mind, you simply said, “I don't want to give up this sword.”

He arched his brow. “Is that all?”

“Yes. Well—no.” You brought a hand to your temple. “It’s more complicated than that. I do want to give up this sword, eventually. But to someone worthy of it.”

You stared at Lightbringer, trying to imagine it in someone else’s hands. Hands that did not belong to your father, but someone who loved you as much as he.

Laughable, as the Hightowers would never let you marry for love.

“Here is what I think, Aemond,” you started. “If this petition works out in my favour, all of my suitors will suddenly be from houses allied with your mother’s faction. I will be made to marry a lord who is in Otto Hightower’s pocket, and he will inherit my father’s sword—and all of that coin in Braavos, too.”

Aemond considered it. “It is fair speculation. You do know how my grandsire thinks.”

“Well, I was raised by his daughter.” When Aemond did not argue with you, you bleakly asked him, “What should I do, then? When I am married to a man who intends only to steal from me, on behalf of the Hand?”

“You could always pray for your lord husband to fall off his horse. I would make sure to prove your innocence after the tragedy.”

You stared at him, as gobsmacked as Aegon was earlier. “Aemond, did you just tell a joke?”

“Would it bring you any comfort if I said no?”

You made a noise that was something between a laugh and a sob. When Aemond offered you his hand again, you took it—standing with his help, shivering as your body was exposed to the night wind. A cloak smelling of smoke and ash was placed on your shoulders, and you gratefully accepted it.

“You no longer wish to marry,” he guessed, watching you fumble with his mantle.

“I wish to marry someone of my choosing.” You found that no words in the Common Tongue could quite capture your anguish, so you relied on your Valyrian: “I did not mind the idea of being used by your family, so long as I could live safely. But I cannot bear the thought of anyone using what once belonged to my father. It is”—your voice broke, but you did not cry—“all I have left of him and my mother.”

“I understand,” Aemond replied, his Valyrian soft, lacking its usual cunning edge. “Focus on your petition for now. Worry not about your betrothal. I will handle it.”

You closed your eyes. You had no idea what he could do, but you trusted him. Aemond was brutally efficient in matters of court and power; you could rely on him.

“Alright,” you said. “I shall count on you.”

The nighttime breeze swept your body again; you shivered, still wrestling with the cloak. Aemond evidently tired of watching you struggle; he brought up his hands and straightened the mantle out for you.

“Are you really thinking of leaving?” he murmured. You blinked, not understanding. “You and my brother—you spoke of leaving for the Free Cities.”

You gave Aemond a long look. His expression was inscrutable, but certainly not happy. There are few people in this world who would worry about me, he had said not long ago. And you had told him, not long after: Just know that you can always write to me, no matter how far away I am.

If you left for Lys, that would no longer be true. You imagined Aemond alone at court, dealing with whatever designs his mother and grandsire had, with only his drunk brother and strange sister for allies—and you, an entire sea away, missing every letter the sailors were meant to give you.

“I could not,” you confessed. “Even if I tried, I think I would eventually have no choice but to return to you.”

He hummed. “Good. I fear I would not have been as kind as my brother in conspiring for your escape. You might have found yourself in trouble with me.”

“Another jest from you?” you remarked. “What a strange day this has been.”

Aemond’s mouth curled, but he did not reply. He merely fastened his cloak of ash around you until it was tight around your neck. And for a moment, in the strange and unreliable light of the moon, his smile looked almost unsettling.

END PART II

notes: oh god this chapter was so long now that I'm looking at it posted as one piece (versus ao3 where I split it up). you are truly my ride or die if you read all that. but anyway, below are some notes to help clarify parts of this chapter in case you are confused-

clarifying ages:

There's 2-3 year gap between the reader and Aemond/Jace

Jace in the first scene is initially 10, and you are 13 (text refers to you as “nearly a woman” since it was ye olde times, but you were really both kids)

In the present day, the characters are all in their late teens/early 20s.

timeline and other notes:

This chapter (and story overall) diverged slightly from show canon; Corlys Velaryon has not yet gotten injured so the Driftmark succession petition has not happened. This is still the blacks’ return to court for the first time in years though, hence why some of the events played out similarly to that episode.

Jace feels a little more mature in this chapter than he did in the end of S1 (he is closer to how he behaves in S2), and that is because of two things: (1) he is aged up slightly so he is naturally more mature; (2) I thought he was hotter in S2 and wanted to write about that version of him instead lol

[atopvisenyashill]

i’m curious. you have to have a theory it can’t just be “d&d were just throwing shit at the wall” which is the obvious and real answer. what do u think they meant for shae’s background to be.

she’s essosi, from lorath specifically

she’s traveled a lot - or so she claims

she implies she’s born of a higher status, or at least she’s not lowborn, that she grew up with married parents who were potentially kinda normal

she doesn’t know courtesies at all - she can’t curtsy, she doesn’t know what a lady’s maid does

she DOES have a p decent understanding of the dangers of politics & seems to find them distasteful despite clearly wanting to social climb

like who the fuck was she before she got to Westeros ten years ago 😭

[racefortheironthrone]

Hi, Maester Steven. Hope you are doing well.

I have a theory on why Lys has a First Magister instead of an Archon like Tyrosh, as would be the custom for a Valyrian colony.

First, I'd like to propose the elctoral system for Archons in general: the freeborn people elect the Archon and the Council of Magisters separately (similar on how we vote for some candidates to the legislative and some others to the executive).

Then, to the theory itself: when Volantis conquered Lys and Myr during the Century of Blood, the First Daughter killed the Archons that governed them. When they rebelled, their rebellion was lead by the Magisters of each city, and, after the cities were freed, instead of going back to the previous electoral system, the Magisters decided that the freeborn would elect them, who in turn would elect one amongst themselves to be a "first among equals", the First Magister (in other words, the people vote for the legislative, who in turn choose the executive).

Basically, I am assuming that both Myr and Lys have First Magisters (we don't know about Myr), the electoral system of the Three Daughters and that the Magisters led the revolt against Volantis during the Century of Blood. But I do think it explains why only Tyrosh has Archons instead of all three.

What do you think?

I think this is an interesting theory, but there are some fundamental problems with it.

As I go into in my essay series on Essosi politics (with a later update because some of the first essays predated the publication of World of Ice and Fire), magisters don't seem to be popularly elected. Rather, they tend to be "chosen from amongst the wealthiest and noblest men of the city." In Norvos, for example, the magisters are selected by the bearded priests, and in Braavos it seems to be a socioeconomic class rather than an elected office. So I think the "magistracy" is much more akin to the senators or equites of Rome, where eligibility comes down to how much money you are recorded as having earned during a census, or they're selected by lottery from among members of that class as was common in Renaissance republics.

Moreover, archons are not popularly elected outside of Volantis. Rather, it is the magisters (usually in council or conclave, but not always) who elect the Archon of Tyrosh, just as they elect the First Magister of Lys, the Prince of Pentos, and the Sealord of Braavos. (My suspicion is that the Myrish also have a Prince, since Craghas Crabfeeder was a prince-admiral of Myr.) The Free Cities are not democratic republics in the modern sense, they are mercantile republics and quite oligarchical in nature.